


These woods are lovely, dark and deep

by Lymphadei



Series: Interpersonal Affairs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Betrayal, Drama, Family Drama, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Violence, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, but not primary focus, literally a year underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:17:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of knowing one another, John Watson is invited by his best friend and school mate, Jasper Holmes, to spend an evening at Baker Street. John is not prepared for what he will encounter during his stay in 221B, nor was he expecting to become entangled with his best friend's father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“These woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.”   - Robert Frost

  
  


\----

  
  


John followed the directions Jasper had scribbled for him all the way to a little two storey building just off Marylebone, squished between a row of tenements and a quaint little café called Speedy's. It was a busy area and John could admit almost having gotten lost a time or two on the way over, but his friend had been graceful enough to add surrounding landmarks in his directions, so luckily, John didn't have to deal with the embarrassment of calling Jasper for help.  
  
John scratched his tousled, blond head as he looked at the little torn off scrap of paper where Jasper's spidery letters described the way almost illegibly. "221B Baker Street," he read aloud to himself. John looked up at the building, eyes wondering to the first floor, where the curtain was just fluttering closed.  
  
Taking a deep breath, John hitched his bag up on one shoulder, heavy with textbooks and a change of clothes, and took the steps up to the front door.  
  
John knocked, three polite taps and waited patiently for someone to come to the door, but it remained firmly shut.

He waited another two minutes before trying again.  
  
Inside, he could hear a door open quietly, before light footsteps came to a stop at the entrance. "Oh, that boy!" A soft admonishment, before the door was pulled open, and John was staring into the kind brown eyes of an elderly woman. She had an apron wrapped about her waist and a spot of flour on her right cheek.  
  
"Terribly sorry to disturb you, miss, but I was told to meet Jasper Holmes here." John smiled expectantly, in hopes that the woman would be able to point him in the right direction.

The woman waved off his apologies with a bright smile, stepping away from the door in a wordless invitation.  
  
"No worries at all, dear. He's just right up those stairs." She stood at the mouth of the creaky wooden staircase as John peered up them, feeling completely out of place and not just a little hesitant to go upstairs. "Well go on, dear, I'm quite sure he's there. That boy is as loud as a parade of elephants, he is."  
  
John smiled politely, turning to the kindly old woman. "Thank you, miss...", he trailed off questioningly.  
  
"Hudson, Misses Martha Hudson."  
  
John beamed, feeling reassured by this woman's welcoming nature as he ascended the stairs. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!"  
  
"You're quite welcome, dear," she called back, door already closing behind her as she retreated into the ground floor flat.  
  
Before he could make it to the door at the top, it flung open with a hearty groan from the hinges. Jasper stood at the entrance, silhouetted by a soft, golden light emanating from the room. His curly dark hair stood up in tangles, as if he'd been running his fingers through it repeatedly, and his vivid green eyes stood out starkly behind black rimmed specs.  
  
"Took you long enough, John, I thought maybe you couldn't read my writing." Jasper waited until he reached the top of the stairs before he smiled brightly and pulled back, allowing John to enter.  
  
The lounge room was nice and spacey, almost as big as the tiny little bedsit he occupied with his mum and Harry. There were things everywhere though, as if someone just picked up papers and books and sat them down wherever they happened to be standing... and was that a real skull on the mantle?  
  
Jasper darted around, stacking papers and attempting to give the room some kind of order. "Sorry for the mess. My dad's a bit of a collector."  
  
"No worries," John smiled, not wanting Jasper to think he was judging him. "Is it just us, then?"  
  
Jasper nodded, falling onto the vacant couch in a sloppy manner, looking for all the world like he'd just taken a run around Richmond Park. "Yeah, dad had a case he had to run off too, or something to that effect." Jasper sat up, pulling his legs into his body as he observed John, who was currently surveying the room with a bit of wonder. "So, did your mum say you could stay over?"  
  
John looked over, smiling before he joined his friend on the couch, also pulling his legs up as he faced the taller of them. "She said it was fine, as long as I'm out of her hair for the night. What about you, what did your dad say, Jas?"  
  
Jasper smiled brightly, shaking an errant hair out of his eyes as he waved an imperious hand in the air in dismissal. "It'll be fine, he doesn't care about things like that." Jasper shrugged, before leaning forward to reach under the table.  
  
John was not shocked in the slightest when his friend pulled back with a pack of fags already halfway empty. John shook his head, watching as the other boy pulled a lighter from a side table and lit up. "Does your dad know you do that?"  
  
Jasper scoffed, pulling in a deep drag in ecstasy, eyes fluttering closed. High cheek bones hollowed out as he took a puff on the fag before answering, "Dad knows everything."  
  
John blushed, watching his friend's lips wrap around the little white stick, wishing he could feel if they were soft or dry, smooth or rough, how they would feel against his own. The two of them had been knowing each other since the beginning of their Juniors, but hadn't really talked much until they began Secondary. They took most of the same classes together, and while Jasper was already eighteen, John was a few months from reaching his majority and leaving school to hopefully pursue a military career.  
  
During their friendship, John has begun to develop a little bit of a crush on Jasper, as did many, many other people as they came of age. John tried not to be jealous whenever he saw Jasper talking to girls or even guys, but he wanted to be the only one his friend was interested in.  
  
Somehow, out of all the years they had known one another, this was the first time Jasper had invited him over, and John had never even met his friend's father, THE Sherlock Holmes. John had read about some of the cases the famous detective had solved in the papers, and whenever he asked Jasper about them, the older boy would always include the more interesting details that the stories left out.  
  
John tilted his head, wondering if Jasper was going to be following in his father's footsteps. "So have you give any thought to where you're going to go for Uni?"  
  
Jasper stared up at the ceiling, smoke drifting up in a lazy dance as he let the fag dangle lazily between his middle and index finger. "I dunno. I figured I might take a gap year, y'know. Do some traveling, maybe. I love London, but I don't plan to be stuck here forever. Dad loves it... Says he'll never leave, but I know there's more for me out there."  
  
John nodded, feeling the same way. "Mum wants me to stay with her, help her keep an eyes out on Harry." John cleared his throat, suddenly feeling his mouth go dry. He hadn't yet told anyone about his plans to enlist in the army, and decided that he didn't to ruin the day with _that_ particular news. "Harry's drinking is getting worse."  
  
"Hm." Was all the reply he'd gotten for over a minute, and just when John was sure that Jasper had nothing to say to that, the other boy opened his mouth to speak. "Don't try to save her, John. It's not your responsibility."  
  
John nodded, rubbed the tears from his eyes before his friend could see them, and jumped off the couch. "Have you got anything to eat? I'm feeling a bit peckish."  
  
Jasper graciously ignored the abrupt deviation in their dialogue before putting out his fag in the ash tray and stretching as John headed for the fridge. Just as he reached for the handle, Jasper called out, "John, you might not want to-" John gasped in horror and revulsion as he stared at what he believed to be a human foot... A human... foot! In the fridge! "-open that," Jasper finished lamely.  
  
John slowly turned to look at him, and of course, look away from, the human foot currently contaminating every other edible item in the fridge. Jasper smirked apologetically. "Tried to warn you."  
  
"Not soon enough," John grumbled, putting as much distance between himself and the foot as possible. "So are we having human organs for dinner?"  
  
"Ha-Ha, no," Jasper dead panned, looking around the flat and trying to locate where he'd kicked off his trainers. "I'm going down to Speedy's. They have the best sandwiches, and right about now, the evening rush should be subsiding." Jasper threw on a light coat and made a beeline for the door. "Back in a mo'."  
  
Like the whirlwind that he was, Jasper spun out of the room and down the stairs, shoes hitting each step like a loud clap of thunder. No wonder Mrs. Hudson knew he was home; John was sure all of Baker Street could hear when Jasper returned, with the way he stomped around.  
  
John looked around the silent room, feeling very much out of place being in someone's home without them present. Even with all the clutter, though, the flat had a very homely atmosphere where the little bedsit he shared with his mother and older sister, Harry, always felt cold and impersonal.  
  
John decided he should probably use the loo before Jasper returned and walked warily to the only hallway in the flat. There was a closed door at the end of the hall and one adjacent to it on the left. John figured he'd try the one on the left first.  
  
John made his was to the closed door and tried the handle. It opened up into an empty bathroom. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped into the room and relieved himself, feeling the tension seep out if his shoulders and back. It felt good to be away from home for once. The atmosphere was so smothering. His mum was almost always high on something and Harry was out all hours of the night, drinking and getting into God knows what. John's worst fear was that they would receive a call about Harry, dead in some ditch, strangled from her own vomit.  
  
John didn't like to think like that, but he couldn't help being bombarded with all the worst case scenarios whenever they didn't see or hear from Harry after a few days of her binges.  
  
John did up his pants and washed his hand before turning to leave the bathroom. He heard the front door open and slam shut, and grinned, in awe of how quick Jasper had been on his feet.  
  
He opened the door and walked out to the living room, not seeing his friend in the lounge room. "Jasper? That was pretty fast even for you-," he rounded the corner and felt his lips snap shut in alarm, heart racing up to his throat. This was most certainly not Jasper.  
  
The man bore a striking resemblance, or rather, Jasper bore a striking resemblance to him. Dark curls reached to the middle of his ears, not quite as long as Jasper's, and eyes a very pale green or blue, John had a feeling he wouldn't be able to tell even if he had the privilege of staring all day. He was taller, and well built, going by the way the white shirt stretched alluringly across his chest. The man looked young, but Jasper was eighteen, so John doubted he was anything below his mid thirties, and right now, John could feel his attention snap to him like a laser beam.  
  
"Uh, not... Jasper," John squeaked, face flaming red with embarrassment.  
  
Sherlock Holmes continued to stare, head tilted as his eyes drifted down John's body; cataloging, 'deducing', Jasper called it.  
  
"And who might you be?" Mr. Holmes, when he spoke, commanded attention, and John found himself wanting to hear that mellifluous voice again, just so he could feel his stomach flop.  
  
John cleared his thoughts, feeling awkward and unprepared for this particular situation. "I'm John, John Watson, sir." He stepped forward, holding out a hand which Holmes shook in a firm grip before letting go. His hands were big and soft, and John found himself wanting to touch them again. "Um, I'm a friend of Jasper."  
  
"Obvious," Mr. Holmes chimed in, tone a bit mocking as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the countertop.  
  
John had a feeling the man liked watching him squirm in discomfort, so he had to refrain from heaving an enormous sigh of relief when he heard Jasper's heavy tread on the stairwell. Mr. Holmes already had his attention on the entrance when Jasper opened the door, a paper bag held in one arm, a drink in the other and a bag of crisps hanging from his lips. John rushed to help him, pulling the bag from his arm and setting it on the table.  
  
Jasper pouted, slumping on the couch in seeming exhaustion. "They were out of those little biscuits I like." Jasper pouted, falling into his customary sulk as he was wont to do when he didn't get his way.  
  
John snickered, "Aw, poor you," he teased before looking into the bag of sandwiches.  
  
Jasper gave him a rude gesture, which John dutifully ignored as he laid out the food. The other boy finally seemed to have notice his father, who had quietly been observing them from the kitchen entrance, arms crossed over his chest.  
  
"Hey dad," he waved lazily, though John didn't miss the spark of excitement in his eyes. "How goes the new case?"  
  
Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes, walking to the black armchair and flopping as gracefully as one can flop into it in a way that so reminded John of his friend that he almost laughed aloud. Now he could see the root of all of Jasper's eccentric behaviours.  
  
"It was a four. A waste of time for which Lestrade never should have called me. A toddler could figure out that it was the sister!” the man complained grumpily, “Of course it's the sister! She was having an affair with the husband."  
  
Jasper's lips curled up in a playful smile. "Oooh, how juicy. Better than Jeremy Kyle, I'd reckon."  
  
Sherlock scoffed, turning to look at the two of them as they stuffed their faces with bread and meat. "Nothing a simple DNA test couldn't have solved. It's a wonder anything was ever solved before I began working with Lestrade." John watched the man gesture wildly with his hands heavenward, as if begging for mercy, which John supposed he was. "The IQ of the Yarders could bring down the entirety of London alone." The words were scathing, but the man said them as if he were talking about the weather.  
  
Jasper snickered in amusement, tossing a potato crisp into his mouth. "Dad, I told John he could stay the night."  
  
Sherlock froze, head whipping towards his son in stunned silence. John nudged his friend in the ribs conspicuously with an elbow, nodding in his father's direction. Jasper stopped, sandwich halfway to his mouth. "What?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged, face clearing to display his customary nonchalance. "You've never been much of a social child."  
  
Jasper shrugged as well, shoving the sandwich in his mouth and biting down. He chewed with a thoughtful look, green eyes focused on the sandwich, but far away. "John's my best friend. I dunno... I guess he just gets me."  
  
John felt his pulse ratchet up a notch and stopped mid-chew, wondering if he'd heard correctly. It was true that he and Jasper understood each other very well, however he had never known his friend to say things like that. It was sort of sweet.  
  
John felt his lip twitch, unable to conceal his pleasure at the fact that the boy he liked felt as if John was the only one who he could connect with. He looked up, feeling eyes on him, and found himself drawn into the hypnotizing stare of the older Holmes. The man looked bemused, as if there was something he couldn't puzzle out. John thought it may be along the lines of, what would his son want with a _normal_ boy like John. Mr. Holmes probably read about his social standing from the wrinkle in his clothes, or the possessive way he held his sandwich, possibly even the outdated trainers on his feet.  
  
John broke the staring match first and looked down at his sandwich, not feeling so hungry anymore. He placed the food on the wrapper and stood, brushing crumbs off his trousers as he headed for the door. "I'm going to call and check on my mum. Be right back."  
  
Feeling two pairs of eyes on him now, he made a quick escape down the stairs and out into the twilight. The temperature had a bit of a bite to it, and John was glad he'd thought to grab his coat on the way out. He instantly felt relief upon leaving the room. Mr. Holmes was an imposing man with a heavy presence. The weight of the man's eyes on him had been almost too much, and John knew when to leave a situation he didn't feel comfortable with, but was it wrong of him to already be just a little taken with his friend's father?  
  
John pulled out his old outdated flip phone and checked for messages. None from his mother or Harry. As if they would be worried about him. One was too engrossed in her drugs and sorrow, and other was trying to drown herself in self-indulgence. John loved his family, but he didn't like them much at all.  
  
John tapped down the contact menu until he reached the words 'Mum', and pressed the call button. The phone rang for a good minute, but John knew to wait. She would answer eventually.  
  
On the tenth ring, his mother answered, speech heavily impaired by whatever drug she had decided on that night.  
  
"'Ellllooo? Is this my little Johnny boy?" John hated when she got like this; hated her and her inability to cope and forget and stay away.  
  
"Yeah mum, it's me," John kicked at the pavement, feeling angry and helpless. Jasper was right. It wasn't his responsibility to save Harry, or his mother, but wherever his father was, John cursed him to the deepest depths of hell.  
  
"Johnny, I tried to call you, but I couldn't get my fingers to work right. Silly little me, you know me, sweetheart." No, not anymore. "Are you havin' fun with that Jason fellow?"  
  
John sighed deeply, already feeling weighed down by this conversation, and they were only a few sentences in. "His name is Jasper, mum."  
  
His mother's tinkling laugh filtered through the line, light and airy, just like she must be feeling from the drugs, or else she'd be bawling. "You know I used to forget your father's name all the time. His name is Hamish, like your middle name, and I would call him Haywood up until our third date. Isn't that funny?" She sighed and John heard the clink of something hitting the table. Probably the needle. “Dear thing was always so sweet about it.”  
  
"How much have you taken, mum?" John was truly scared for his mother. Her life revolved around the drugs and the pain and the memories. For as long as he could remember, she just waddled in her own misery.  
  
His mother laughed again, this time a bit maniacally. "Oh, you know it keeps my headaches at bay, you remember I used to get those a lot, John-"  
  
John cut in, feeling tired of the games. "Answer the question."  
  
His mother was quiet for a moment before she replied, her voice a complete turn around from the high pitched airiness it was before. "You know you can be a little shit sometimes, an ungrateful little shit. Sod off and leave me be." She hung up before he could say anything else. All would be forgiven in the morning; his mother never remembered the horrible things she said when she was high.  
  
John thought about calling Harry, but decided against it. Being cussed out by one member of his family was enough for one night.  
  
John sighed and pulled in a deep breath, lips pursing as he fought to stop the tears.  
  
Things would get better; at least he could try to convince himself.  
  
\---  
  
The rest of the night was spent watching cheesy action movies and stuffing themselves silly with popcorn and cola. John found it was fun to have both father and son inserting their witty comments intermittently throughout the movie. Mr. Holmes stayed glued to his chair and laptop the entire time, but kept one eye on the telly. Jasper and John found themselves gravitating closer throughout the movie, and before John realized, they were almost near enough that if he turned his head, he would have only to lean forward a bit to kiss his friend.  
  
John felt the happiest he had been in a very long time, and eventually he found himself falling into a light doze.  
  
It felt almost a moment later that he felt a cover draped over his body, stretched out on the couch facing the back. He smiled, "Thanks Jas." John was almost asleep when he heard a deeper voice than his friend's reply in light amusement.  
  
"Not Jasper."  
  
It didn't matter at this point though. John was already drifting into the welcoming arms of oblivion.  
  
\---  
  
John jolted awake abruptly, chest heaving as he blinked to clear the remnants of his latest nightmare away. The room was cloaked in darkness and John found himself afraid of it for the first time since he was child. Breathing deeply, he rubbed his palms across his eyes to scrub away the sleep that had collected there and lifted his legs off the couch and onto the floor.  
  
He paused, straining his ears until he could hear clearly the soft strains of a violin. The music was coming from the door at the end of the hall, soft and as alluring as the man who was skillfully maneuvering its strings. John reached over to the side table, and turned on the reading lamp before standing up. He made his way to the window and pulled back the curtain. Baker Street had finally gone to sleep, except for a few stragglers navigating the London nightlife.  
  
John was knackered; sleep beckoned him with heavy grasping fingers but he didn't want to sink into that oppressive darkness again. Nothing good ever came from sleep these days. It had become a vicious cycle to sleep a few hours and wake throughout the night in a state of fear and panic. John's dreams became a revolving door of drug addicts, alcoholics and missing fathers, and eventually at some point or another, they all meet a certain death that he is useless to stop.  
  
John could feel his breaking point growing ever nearer every day and he knew the moment was coming when decided enough was enough. He wanted to believe that something would happen for him, to him, that would make him happy, but it was becoming a chore to have such faith every day. Nothing ever happened to John.  
  
The sound of a door opening drew his attention to the hallway. Mr. Holmes exited the room in a plain white top and pyjama bottoms, a blue silk robe thrown over the whole lot. The man paused upon seeing him at the window, approaching a bit more cautiously to come and stand next to John at the window. John wondered how Mr. Holmes saw the world. Where John only saw stragglers, would the man know where exactly these strangers were heading, what they were hoping to get up to in the cover of night, or if they were running from things that they hoped no one else could see.  
  
The street lights reflected brilliantly off of Holmes' pale eyes, finely sculpted cheekbones showing in a high definition that made John's stomach flutter the way it did when he heard that deep voice speak to him.  
  
John didn't feel the need to fill the silence with words, but he could feel the curiosity emanating from the man standing beside him. He was reluctant to sever the tenuous string of peace between them at this late hour.  
  
Finally, Holmes turned to him, tracking every minute change in John's thoughts and expressions. The intensity was off putting in a way, but he found himself almost excited under the scrutiny of the tall brunette.  
  
"Are you alright?" The question was cautionary at best, as if he didn't know if it was the right words to ask.  
  
John smiled and nodded, crossing his arms as he leaned against the window and turned his eyes to the empty street below. "I'm okay, Mr. Holmes. I don't sleep much through the night anymore."  
  
Holmes nodded once, and John looked closer, seeing the faint dark bruises under his eyes, as if they had been there for a long time, now just a part of who he was. The silence stretched on for a little while longer before the older man spoke again. "Sherlock," he said without preamble, "call me Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is my brother, whom I hope you never have the misfortune of coming into contact with."  
  
John snickered, looking up at Mr. Holmes - Sherlock - as he leaned forward to peer closely at something outside the window. "Not very close, the two of you?" John asked, already knowing what the answer to that would be.  
  
"Not at all," Sherlock huffed, "I'm surprised Jasper hasn't told you of him." Sherlock stopped and turned to the young blonde, one side of his full lips turning upwards in a secretive smirk. "Though my son has obviously progressed in the art of keeping secrets, John Watson."  
  
John blushed, unable to hold that all knowing gaze any longer, feeling inadequate in intellect to be having such a conversation with this brilliant man.  
  
"We-we're not together, he and I. Jasper is... is a dear friend to me." John hadn't realized how true the words were until he had said them out loud and felt them echo in his heart just the same. "I guess you could say he gets me, too."  
  
It was almost comical how out of his depth Sherlock appeared to be while having this discussion. John had a feeling he wasn't a well versed man when it came to expressing feelings and emotions. However, John could see the love and pride there in his eyes whenever he said Jasper's name. Sherlock loved his son dearly, and John could understand if his father was curious as to who his son was befriending.  
  
"No need to explain," Sherlock said, close enough that John could feel his breath fall across his cheek. He hadn't even noticed how close they had come to one another. "I know what it is you are choosing not to say and recognize the truth in what you have."  
  
John swallowed, feeling as if he was being engulfed by this enigma. He had only met the man today and the electricity between them was otherworldly.  
  
Sherlock leaned forward and placed his lips softly on John's cheek, his fingers coming up to skirt lightly down the younger man's arm, goose pimples following in their wake.  
  
Sherlock's lips lingered a moment longer before he brushed them across John's cheekbone and to his ear.  
  
"Goodnight, John." Then he was gone as if he had never been there, bedroom door clicking shut softly behind him.  
  
John touched a finger to his cheek, where the ghost of soft lips lingered.  
  
What exactly was he doing?  
  
This was his best friend's father, and not to mention things had also been changing between he and Jasper, of late. John tried to convince himself that Sherlock kissed all his sons' guests on the cheek, perhaps a token of gratitude from the odd detective for making Jasper happy. John also knew how far fetched and ridiculous the idea was.  
  
John was the normal one, the one no one wanted, so why was Sherlock Holmes showing an interest in him?  
  
John sighed before turning away from the window and walking back to the couch. He laid down and closed his eyes in hopes of sleep coming to take him again.  
  
\---  
  
When morning came, John pulled the cover over his head to block out the light coming from the window, while Jasper padded loudly up and down the stairs in preparation for the day. John didn't consider that his friend might be making as much noise as possible intentionally; that is until something soft and yielding landed solidly on his head.  
  
Did Jasper just hit him with a pillow? Another hit came before John was ready, and he pulled down the cover and glared at the energetic teen currently pelting him with a sodding pillow! "Jasper, you berk, cut it out!" Jasper only laughed and hit him square in the mouth with the pillow.  
  
"All right, that's it." John grabbed his pillow and hopped off the couch, swinging his pillow full force. He caught the older boy right in his laughing mouth, and then promptly doubled over with laughter at Jasper's stunned expression. The other boy retaliated by raining blow upon blow on his back with the pillow as John tried to catch his breath.  
  
"Alright, alright, you win, Jasper!" John giggled, wishing he could wake up this way all the time. "I surrender!"  
  
Jasper stopped and listened for a noise John hadn't picked up on yet, eyes widening in horror and amusement. "Shit, I think we woke my dad. God, he's going to be so angry. Quick, quick get on the couch and act natural!"  
  
"Natural?!" John hissed back, "I'm terrible at that, and this is your fault, you tosser!"  
  
Jasper snickered, and then they both jumped into action as a loud thump sounded from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. Jasper grabbed for the remote and they both made a mad dash for the couch just as the door swung open violently.  
  
Sherlock stormed down the hallway looking for all the world like an avenging angel. He hadn't bothered to put on a top, and Sherlock wore just his silk robe and pyjama bottoms. John tried to look anywhere but that lovely, lean torso with miles of revealed wintry skin.  
  
"The one time I actually deign to sleep, you decide you want to make as much noise as possible," Sherlock snarled, only just revving up to throw a royal tantrum. "Between stomping up and down the stairs like a great bloody beast and screaming your lungs out, spare a thought to how miserable I could make your life if you wake me up again."  
  
John stared with wide eyes, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat, but Jasper looked unimpressed by the whole ordeal, eyes rolling as he tapped the button on the remote to change the channel.  
  
"Am I making myself clear enough for you, Jasper?" The man hissed, anger pouring off of him in waves.  
  
Sighing, Jasper answered in a low grumble, "Yes."  
  
"Good," he replied quickly, right on the tail end of Jasper's reluctant assent. "And if you insist on continuing your silly little theatrics, you might want to actually have the telly powered on." With that dressing down promptly completed, Sherlock pivoted back into the room and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows.  
  
John stared slack jawed at the door before turning to his friend who was now slumping dramatically against the arm of the couch. Jasper sighed, long and drawn out, before it morphed into a giggle. "My dad is such a drama queen."  
  
John heard the nervous chuckle pass his own lips, but all he could think about was how Jasper's father was a striking figure to behold when he was angry.  
  
"Hey," Jasper nudged him with a foot, "you alright, mate?" His green eyes peered at John in concern under floppy curls, using his index finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. John hadn't even noticed when he'd put them back on, sure that his friend was smart enough to take them off before engaging in a pillow fight.  
  
"I'm fine, just... I probably have to be getting home soon to check on my mum..." John didn't want to leave. He didn't want to go back to his depressing bedsit, with his depressing mum and back to his depressing life. He dreaded it. John hadn't had this much fun in longer than he could remember.  
  
Jasper looked down at the couch, plucking at a piece of loose thread as he opened his mouth to speak. "John, I... I don't want you to leave either." He paused, swallowing several time before he met John's eyes again. "My dad and I were talking when you went to call your mum last night. He said it was fine if you wanted to stay... You know, I don't want you to be around your mum when she's like that. I know what it does to you." The pain in Jasper's eyes was like a punch to the gut for John. All this time he thought that no one was listening, no one cared, but Jasper had been planning and speaking on his behalf, to secure a safe haven for him. John didn't know what to think. He didn't want any pity nor charity, but he did want to be happy again.  
  
John knew the smile on his face was a sad one. He had never been good at hiding his feelings. He wore his emotions like a second layer of skin.  
  
"I'd love to, but I couldn't leave my mum. Without me, I don't know what she would do. She can hardly take care of herself now." John sighed, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "If something happened to her and I wasn't there, I don't think I could ever forgive myself for that."  
  
John laughed bitterly, "God knows Harry couldn't take care of someone, let alone, herself." He felt trapped by his own family and their pursuit to drive themselves to ruin.  
  
Jasper didn't try to mask his disappointment, but he nodded in understanding, knowing that nothing could change John's mind. Jasper knew that if anything happened, John would blame himself and his inability to prevent it.  
  
Before John could lose his nerve, he pushed Jasper's elevated feet off the couch and closed the gap between them, throwing him arms around his friend's neck. For a moment, John was afraid that Jasper wasn't going to react, but slowly, his arms came up to circle around the younger boy's back.  
  
"Thank you," John whispered, throat tight around the words. "It means a lot to me, our friendship."  
  
Jasper let out a shaky breath, nodding his head in agreement. "It means a lot to me, too," he breathed, "more than you know."  
  
Jasper leaned back, one of his hands traveling slowly up John's back and fingers gliding softly along the nape of his neck. The moment was heavy with unspoken words and John could feel their chests against one another, heartbeats elevated.  
  
Jasper's bespectacled green gaze flickered from John's eyes, to his lips and back, his own parted just a sliver. John could feel his face heating, and knew the tips of his ears had gone pink. He was so close, too close to what he had been dreaming of for more than a year now, and if he just leaned forward a little...  
  
The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut is what jolted them both out of the moment. John pulled away, feeling guilty for taking a moment of friendship and bonding and turning it into something not so innocent.  
  
Jasper blinked rapidly, running a hand through his hair he took several deep breaths. John stood up, stretching his hands above his head, a yawn pushing at his lips. He was still a bit sleepy, but he reckoned it was too late to try and get a few more hours rest.  
  
He turned to Jasper, seeing the boy reach under the table again for the pack of fags he kept hidden there. "Have you got any tea?" John would kill for a cuppa, about now.  
  
Jasper gestured to the general area of the kitchen, and John took the hint. "Not going to be any more body parts, are there?"  
  
Jasper snickered around the white stick between his lips. Holding it between middle and index finger, he pulled it away to speak. "Perhaps, perhaps not."  
  
John rolled his eyes, a fond smile pulling at his lips. Jasper could be a right pain sometimes, but John wouldn't have him any other way.  
  
He searched through several empty cabinets until he finally found the tea. "Got it," he called back.  
  
"You might want to rinse it out," Jasper cautioned. "Dad might have some kind of mouldy stuff growing in there, or summat."  
  
The man himself chose that moment to reveal himself, all bespoke and lean lines. John could feel his eyebrows threatening to reach his hairline, so he turned and made himself busy with preparing the tea. "Jasper, your grammar is atrocious. Every time you talk, it's like someone's taking a cheese grater to my brain."  
  
John chuckled lightly, hearing Jasper's outraged protest. "Well that's unfair," he spluttered indignantly, "not everyone can be a posh git like you!"  
  
John gasped, wondering how it was Jasper got away with calling his father a git, but as he turned, he could see the edges of Sherlock's lips pulling up and knew it was all in good fun.  
  
When the tea was done, John put it on a tray along with three cups, sugar and a bit of milk before he took it to the living room and sat it down on the table. John poured his own cup, before getting comfortable in the chair with the plaid blanket thrown over it. Taking a sip, he breathed a sigh of relief, feeling soothed by the taste. When he glanced up, two pairs of eyes were watching him expectantly.  
  
"What?" John looked from their eyes to his cup and back. "Oh no, I'm not your maid."  
  
Jasper threw his head back and guffawed. "Dad, he's channeling Mrs. Hudson now! How brilliant is that?"  
  
John frowned, tea cup stopping halfway to his lips. "So that's not... your maid, that is?"  
  
Sherlock snorted in amusement, "Don't let her hear you say that."  
  
Jasper's voice took on a high pitched tone as he waggled a finger at John. "Just this once, dear. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."  
  
John couldn't help the giggle at Jasper's comedic display. He looked absolutely ridiculous.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at his son's antics, eyes focused on his mobile where his fingers were relentlessly tapping away. "Your mimicry leaves much to be desired."  
  
Jasper smiled in pride at his acting abilities or lack thereof, and turned to John. "So, when are you planning on going home."  
  
John frowned, staring at his reflection in the tea. There were bags under his eyes from exhaustion and his lips were pressed in a firm line. "I dunno. Soon, maybe."  
  
Jasper's voice pulled him out of his thoughts before he could sink too deep. "Maybe you could go check on your mum and come back. I'm sure she wouldn't mind." John could tell Jasper was pulling out every excuse he could think of to get John to stay, and it made him grin knowing his friend wanted him to stay just as bad as he wanted to. "We haven't even worked on our homework together like we were supposed to."  
  
John leaned forward to place the cup on the table, wishing he could stay forever. "Maybe," he replied, biting his bottom lip nervously.  
  
Jasper huffed angrily, crossing his arms over his chest, and John could feel one of his famous tantrums dredging up. "Right," he said, voice gone icy and scathing. "I guess it depends what she's taken today, then?"  
  
Everyone froze, including Sherlock who had gotten up to peer out the window. The older Holmes didn't apologize for his son, because after all, Jasper was a product of his father, and everyone knew Sherlock Holmes never apologized for a deduction. Jasper however, had his eyes cast down in shame, gritting his teeth as he searched for something to say. "John, I didn't-"  
  
John held up a hand, knowing Jasper was only snapping out of frustration, but the knowledge of it didn't make his thoughtless comment hurt any less. Pursing his lips, John tapped his fingers against the arms of the chair before nodding in resolve. "Right. Well I'll just be going now."  
  
"Wait, John, don't leave. I didn't mean for it to come out like that." John grabbed his backpack and hoisted it over his shoulder, giving his best friend a soft smile, looking to reassure him.  
  
"You're my best friend, Jas, but you really don't know as much as you think you do." His words were spoken not unkindly, but Jasper looked chastised none the less, arms dropping to his sides limply. "I promise, I'll be in touch later. Thanks for letting me kip on your sofa Mr. Holmes." With a smile to his friend and a friendly nod to the man silently absorbing the conversation, John turned and swept out of the room.  
  
Once properly out of the building and onto the pavement, John allowed himself a pause. The street wasn't packed, just a lovely, quiet Saturday in London for the majority. John was left uninterrupted as he stopped on the pavement just outside the building, wiping away the stray tears. He felt weak and empty, like a joke in the face of all that was happening now.  
  
John swiped an arm over his eyes and made to leave, taking one last look behind him at the place where he'd found himself feeling more at home than anywhere else.  
  
In the window, Sherlock stood with a fag dangled between his fingers, smoke swirling into his mystifying eyes. He was pensive as he peered down at John, a beautiful, lonely figure back-dropped in darkness. Sherlock nodded once, slowly, and then disappeared behind the curtain.  
  
John swallowed, and forced himself to carry on to the tube that would get him as close to his miserable little bedsit as possible.  
  
\---  
  
"Mum?" John called as soon as he'd walked into the bedsit. The room was dark and shadowy, every corner draped in darkness, and his mother slumped lazily in the middle of the couch. An empty syringe was laid out on the table before her, and the tourniquet still wrapped around his mother's abused arm.  
  
John could hear Harry running the shower in the bathroom and the Telly was turned on extremely low, to a BBC documentary he hadn't seen before. John dropped his pack onto the floor by the entrance, feeling anger already rolling deep in his belly like a gathering thunderstorm.  
  
The door to the bathroom swung open just as he went to check his mother's pulse. Once John felt the steady beat, he breathed a sigh of relief, wondering when the time was going to come that he wouldn't feel it any longer.  
  
Harry stalked further into the room once she saw him, long blonde hair wet with water. Her face was set in a deep frown that distorted her pretty features hideously. Harry didn't have much to be happy about these day, and it seemed she had time to stew and was ready to unleash her fury.  
  
"Where the hell have you been? What's the matter with you leaving mum here alone?" Harry was furious, but her anger only fueled John's in turn.  
  
John turned on her without a moments notice. "I was at a friend's. Where were you," he growled, "sleeping off another hangover in a ditch?"  
  
Harry started forward, shoving at John's chest harshly, and he stumbled back, barely keeping himself on his feet. "Bugger off, you little shit! You don't know anything!"  
  
John vowed he would never lay his hands on a woman, but Harry was pushing him to the point where he wanted to disregard that promise, and he wouldn't feel bad about it. "I know enough to know you're never here when she needs you," he yelled, feeling his frayed nerves begin to come apart at the seams. "You don't care about her, you don't care about anyone but yourself and your drink!"  
  
Harry charged forward, drawing her fist back and punching John straight in the mouth, catching him off guard. He fell on his arse with enough force to bruise, and no sooner was he down, than was Harry on him like a wild animal, screaming abuse and wrapping her hands around his neck.  
  
"You don't know anything, you don't! Why don't you just leave!" John pulled at her hands around his neck, struggling against her hold and trying desperately to filter air through his trachea. "I hate you! None of this would be happening if it weren't for you!"  
  
John could see her crying now, but adrenaline was making her stronger and John couldn't dislodge her hands from his throat. Black dots were appearing before him now, vision going fuzzy as she continued to deny her brother air. Harry was crying hysterically now and her hands had finally slackened a bit, but John was already being pulled into the clutches of darkness creeping in at the edge of his vision. He allowed it to pull him under. John didn't know if he was escaping or finally giving up.  
  
\---  
  
When John awoke, the room was pitched in complete darkness, and his body ached from his prone position on the floor. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his sore neck as he remembered his sister's assault. John's phone dug into his arse from his back pocket, and he reached back to pull it out. 18:31.  
  
John had received one new message from Jasper wondering if everything was okay, and another apology, three hours ago. He flipped his phone shut. No, everything was not okay.  
  
The blond struggled to stand on shaky legs as he felt along the walls for a light switch, right hand affixed to his aching jaw. John's fingers found the switch which he flipped and pulled his fingers away, painted red.  
  
"Shit," the teen swore under his breath. His sister was such a coward, never wanting to face herself or the things she put others through. John didn't even know why he put up with her shit. Honestly, he didn't know why he put up with either of them. Remembering his mother, John turned to see if his mother was still in her drugged haze on the couch, and found it empty. His mother had gone, meaning she had to step over him to do so. She probably hadn't even stopped to see if John was still breathing before she went on her new quest to find something to dumb her sorrows.  
  
John limped to the bathroom, his arse smarting quite a bit. He didn't stop to think of what he was doing, just swung open the cabinet and grabbed all of his things. John hadn't planned on doing anything drastic, but just seeing what was happening to him, to his family, he had to get out. He grabbed the only duffle bag he kept at the top of their shared cupboard and stuffed what little clothes and precious items he had into it.  
  
Once packed, John grabbed his book bag off the floor by the entrance and the duffle with everything he owned. With one last look at the empty bedsit, John walked away, leaving behind everything he'd ever known.  
  
\---  
  
John walked aimlessly for hours, shoulders aching from the weight of his bags. A few people had stopped him to inquire if he was alright or needed assistance, but many just walked as far away from him as possible. He imagined what he must look like with bruises around his neck and on his jaw, as well as a bloodied lip.  
  
Eventually he found himself standing outside a familiar building on Baker Street. John hadn't even realized he had been walking in that direction. He climbed the stairs slowly, taking a steadying breath to calm the nervous flutters in his gut. Hopefully after this morning, the offer wasn't off the table. John hoped Jasper would at least let him use the shower and kip on the couch for the night, if anything, and then when he woke tomorrow, he could figure out what to do from there.  
  
John finally got up the nerve to knock, and leaned forward, rapping on the door sharply. After a minute of no answer, he rang the bell, hearing no signs of life from inside. He backed away looking up at the first storey window. John swore under his breath at seeing it dark and uninhabited, wishing he had thought to call before assuming he could just come round.  
  
John pulled the bags off his shoulder and sat them on the steps beside him, feeling as if the last of his energy had been depleted. He ran a trembling hand through blond hair that desperately needed a good washing off.  
  
John settled in to wait, leaning against the rails and closing his eyes. His head felt heavy with things he didn't want to think about and John just felt like sleeping and never waking up. Everyday he wondered when he would get around to doing something about it.  
  
An hour passed and there was still no sign of Sherlock or Jasper, so John figured he might have time to grab a sandwich and a packet of crisps from the shop next door. He ate, feeling ravenous, realizing he hadn't had anything to eat all day, which was more than unusual for him. Everything that day had been happening so quickly and John hadn't had time to pause and think of himself. Finishing his sandwich, John balled up the wrapper and threw it in the bin on the pavement and put the crisps in his bag to save for later, before settling down on the steps again. The later it became, the lower the temperature fell, and John was left huddled over his knees with his arms wrapped around his shoulders in order to conserve warmth.  
  
Shortly thereafter, a black cab pulled up and Sherlock Holmes stepped out, wrapped in bespoke and a black wool great coat, long legs unfolding from the backseat gracefully. He didn't look at all surprised to see John, however, almost as if he had expected this. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together slightly as he looked him over, taking quick notes of the split lip and bruised jaw, probably even deducing the discomfort of his arse from the way he sat.  
  
Sherlock stepped past him, pulling out his keys and opening the door for John to go through first, no offer to help with his bags forthcoming. John limped through the door, avoiding Sherlock's ever watchful gaze, staring at his old trainers instead.  
  
Sherlock led the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time where John struggled to keep up with him, shorter legs unable to stretch as far.  
  
The taller man flicked on the lights and pulled his coat off to hang near the door. He still hadn't uttered a word, and John wondered if that should make him nervous or happy. After what happened earlier in the day, the way John had walked out, anything Sherlock could say would be fair.  
  
John cleared his throat, still standing by the door awkwardly. "So I'm guessing Jasper won't be back for a while if he's not here already."  
  
Sherlock turned piercing pale eyes upon him, and John immediately found himself feeling unworthy to be in the same space as this man. He was like a planet all on his own, complete with his own gravitational pull. "I sent him to stay with my brother for a few days."  
  
John blinked, feeling his heart sink. He had desperately wanted to speak with Jasper and tell him not to worry, that he wasn't angry with the other boy. John had wanted Jasper to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay and say something to make the mood lighter.  
  
Sherlock stopped before him, hands shoved in his pockets. "You decided to take him up on the offer. Due in part to your sister's attempt on your life, perhaps."  
  
John gaped silently, at a loss for words, not really wanting to know how Sherlock could tell, but amazed at the ability that he could relay exactly how if John simply asked. "Y-yes, but I'll understand if you don't want me here. I don't want to impose."  
  
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively before he turned to the hallway, calling over his shoulder. "Don't be boring, John, I like you much more when you're not saying stupid things."  
  
John smiled slightly at that, feeling his shoulders relax slowly. That was Sherlock Holmes speak for 'Of course you can stay.' Feeling relieved, John shucked his jacket off and hung it on the coat rack next to Sherlock's, looking for a moment at how pathetic the cheap material looked next to a coat that most likely cost over one thousand pounds.  
  
Sherlock materialized in the living room again, this time with a damp towel and a disinfectant. "Sit," he ordered, pointing to the chair with the Union Jack pillow.  
  
John shrugged, pulling himself from his reverie and going to sit in the chair Sherlock hovered next to.  
  
He really did try not to be surprised when Sherlock knelt down in front of him, beside his legs instead of between them. John guessed that would have been a little more suggestive. "You're going to want to put some ice on that," Sherlock pointed out, eyes flickering to his jaw and back to his lips where he raised the damp towel to.  
  
They both knew this was something John could have done himself, but Sherlock seemed to genuinely want to do it, and John could admit that he felt a little comfort in being taken care of.  
  
John winced as the towel caught his lips a bit, hand coming up out of habit and landing to cover the other man's larger one.  
  
"At first I didn't see what it was Jasper was seeing when he looked at you," Sherlock began, "poor little boy who needed a friend to rescue him."  
  
John felt the sharp stab at Sherlock's honest words. His deep voice was soft and calming, contrary to the things that left his mouth. "Most people stay around to see what they can get, prey on the vulnerable. My son has an open heart, and an affinity for strays, but I always stop things before they can go too far."  
  
John didn't know why Sherlock was telling him these things, and he felt breathless with the knowledge he was receiving. Sherlock's hand was still trapped under his own hand, but not strong enough that it couldn't be moved if the owner wanted to.  
  
John couldn't look away from those sharp eyes, wondering if Sherlock could see all the hurt and anger, the truth and lies and the admiration he was currently feeling. "But you, John, you haven't asked for a thing and I could already see Jasper already on the edge of giving everything he has to you." Sherlock leaned closer, bow lips skirting slowly against the line of his jaw. "I know what you're doing to him, because I can feel it, too."  
  
John could feel his chest heave in anticipation, Sherlock's breath making him tremble with the desire to reach forward and take, take, take.  
  
Sherlock's eyes were roaming over his face, devouring every reaction, close enough that he and John inhaled the very same air. Finally, the older man leaned forward, placing a sensuous kiss at the corner of his lips. At this point, John was very near to hyperventilating.  
  
Sherlock released the towel he still held and wrapped large hands around the nape of John's neck, pulling him forward with the leverage. This was no light, tentative peck, but a hard demanding clash of lips and teeth all coming together to send John's brain into a momentary relapse.  
  
The other man had moved to kneel between his legs, pulling him forward by his thighs to the edge of the chair and up against a solid chest. When their lips parted, John turned his head slightly, panting into the other man's cheek.  
  
Swollen lips pressed down his neck in soft nips, sharp teeth pulling at yielding flesh. Sherlock pulled back to see John's face, eyes gone dark with adrenaline and desire. "Does he know what it's like to see you this way? Bruised lips and flushed skin," he growled. "I could take you right here, and you would let me." Those lips hovered deliciously close, but just out of John's reach, taunting him. "Wouldn't you?"  
  
John nodded, bones turned to liquid inside his body, Sherlock holding his upper body against him being the only thing to keep him from slumping. Dirty things slipped out of the older man's mouth as easily as his deductions, exciting John beyond anything he had ever felt. He could feel himself growing hard, but mortification took a backseat to desire, and he couldn't bring himself to care.  
  
The air in the room had grown thick with their shared breaths, and John was beginning to feel sticky and overheated. Before he could think about what was happening, Sherlock had pulled him the rest of the way off the chair and into his lap.  
  
The older man's cock pressed against his own, causing both men to let out a hiss of pleasure. Sherlock had one hand on the small of his back, smoothing down John's arching back, the other fisted tightly into blond hair. Sherlock's tongue worked skillfully along his lesser experienced appendage, devouring him slowly.  
  
The hand on his back pressed down, guiding his hips down to undulate his cock against Sherlock's.  
  
The other man groaned into his mouth, before breaking away, head slumping against John's shoulder as he ground his hips up into John's groin. Sherlock's eyes were nearly luminous as he hooked John in a searing staring match that left him feeling peeled open and vulnerable. Sherlock was panting something unintelligible, even with how close they were, John couldn't make it out.  
  
Sherlock flipped them over, John now on his back, and sat on his heels, one hand trailing from John's torso to the zip on his trousers. His shirt was hitched up to his chest, and Sherlock took advantage of this, leaning forward to place a trail of kisses down to the edge of the jeans where deft hands were steadily working to release his cock from its confines.  
  
When the cool air hit, John gasped, feeling his erect penis flag just slightly from the unexpected draft. Sherlock sat up, eyes half mast as he took in the picture of John splayed out beneath him, wanting and waiting, legs spread in an open invitation.  
  
Sherlock undid his own zip, slowly pulling out his cock and stroking it lightly, eyes trailing over his lover's young body. Ripe and untouched; John knew older men liked those things, and he'd never engaged in anything like this, but he had a feeling had he been older, more weathered, that this man would still look at him the same way.  
  
Sherlock leaned down, settling himself between John's legs and aligning their weeping cocks. His lips descended upon John's in a hungry, tender kiss that took his breath away.  
  
Slender hips worked sensuously down against his own, a slow circle that threatened to leave him gasping and sweating. Their lips broke apart and Sherlock nuzzled into the space between his neck and shoulder, mouth moving with silent words.  
  
John wrapped his legs around a slim waist and allowed the other man to lead them to the end. Sherlock's hips were growing increasingly more forceful, and John could feel the tension gathering up, release just out of his reach.  
  
Words were becoming clearer as Sherlock worked this closer to the edge, one hand steadying them on the ground, while the other found its place in John's hair once again. They were sharing the same breath, Sherlock speaking words against his gasping mouth and John could finally begin to make them out. "He can't have you," he slurred, having a harder time speaking as his orgasm pushed closer and closer. "He can't have you. John, John, my John."  
  
John could hear his name being spoken like a prayer now, and something about hearing Sherlock's possessive chant pushed him over the edge. John came harder than anything he had ever done, body convulsing beneath the larger one atop him, feeling as if his soul was leaving him. Sherlock was not far behind, hips moving erratically now, until they tensed above him, and pale eyes squeezed shut with the force of the orgasm, lips open in a soundless groan.  
  
John laid lifelessly beneath the detective, who had slumped over him in exhaustion and lazy pleasure. His chest heaved with the effort to stabilize his breathing, head quite unable to wrap round what just happened.  
  
Sherlock seemed to be the quicker of the two to recover. He rolled off of John and laid beside him on the floor, looking over to make sure he was okay.  
  
John nodded, a goofy smile threatening to break loose. Sherlock chuckled, leaning forward to place a light kiss on his smirking lips. "Come to bed with me," he whispered, eyes suddenly serious as he peered down at the younger man.  
  
John's smile waned slightly, wondering about the implications of climbing into bed with Sherlock . He had never had penetrative sex with a male before, and his knowledge on the subject extended to where the man would actually insert his penis. Sherlock ran a gentle finger down his cheek in reassurance. "Just sleep."  
  
John nodded, comforted by the fact that Sherlock was aware of his doubts and wouldn't push him to do anything he didn't want to. "Of course, but do you mind if I use your shower first?"  
  
Sherlock sighed dramatically, long legs splayed out on the floor. "If you must."  
  
John hoisted himself off the floor, feeling sticky, but decidedly pleased with their earlier tryst. Sherlock's longer legs lifted him gracefully off the floor, a step behind John as he headed for the bathroom. John turned to see Sherlock enter the bathroom behind him, clothes having been thrown off during the walk.  
  
John couldn't pretend he wasn't pleased, not when he couldn't wipe the silly grin off his lips and get his heart to stop trying to escape his chest.  
  
The shared shower found the blond crowded in a corner, the taller man looming over him, laying gentle kisses on his lips that had John melting into him. Everything about the man was intoxicating, and John found himself indulging like a glutton. Things never progressed past brief swipes of hands over sensitive places and a healthy amount of snogging.  
  
It wasn't until the two of them had dried off and their bodies pressed close in Sherlock's bed, that John began to really think about what they had done together. Jasper had been just a thought in the background, but now his best friend weighed heavily on his conscious. John had just engaged in sexual intercourse with his best friend's father and was now sleeping in bed with him.  
  
It had never happened this fast before with anyone, not even he and Jasper, who had slowly been gravitating around one another for years now. John had known that eventually they would either collide at some point or drift away, just not when. It seemed after meeting Sherlock, all of that was out the window, and John didn't know what to make of that.  
  
He still cared for Jasper dearly, and he barely knew the older Holmes, but that didn't stop John from feeling this compulsory magnetism to the detective.  
  
"Please, restrain yourself from thinking quite so loudly." Sherlock's chocolate baritone pushed through his thoughts, frayed with annoyance.  
  
John rolled over to see Sherlock wide awake and eyes not dulled by exhaustion, but rather lit with insight and a tinge of wariness. "You're thinking about him."  
  
John nodded, eyes closing briefly against the knowing look Sherlock was pinning him with. "Aren't you?"  
  
Sherlock sighed, laying his head down on one folded arm as he gazed back at John, voice lowering to something deeper and pensive.  "I am, but not quite in the way that you are. You feel guilty about what we've done."  
  
Hearing him say what John was feeling only set it in stone, like a heavy thing sitting in the gap between their bodies. "Jasper and I never said anything to one another about how we've felt, but I suspected one us were going to crack at some turn or another. I never could have seen this... you, coming."  
  
Sherlock didn't look away throughout John's speech, just settled that unnerving gaze upon him and was dissolving his layers piece by piece, reading him like the open book that he was.  
  
"Your guilt is unnecessary; we can't go back and change the past, but I will tell you this, John. I don't make it a habit of being dishonest and I've never hidden any aspect of my life from my son." Sherlock's voice was firm with the conviction of his words, and John found he couldn't argue with the man. "Jasper will find out, eventually, and when he does, I'm not going to deny anything we've done here tonight. You will find that I have very few regrets in this life, but having you in my bed is not and never will be one of them."  
  
John swallowed around the lump in his throat, feeling caught up on a tide of emotions he wasn't all that used to experiencing. "He'll be angry."  
  
Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Oh, if he's anything like me, he'll be furious."  
  
"But you knew," John stated in a tremulous voice, "You knew when we first met what Jasper and I were heading to, so why me?"  
  
The older man's eyes squinted through the darkness, assessing his answer before letting it slip past his lips, scanning John's tone and body language, and weighing his words carefully. "The night I met you and saw how my son looked at you, I had every intention of sending you away. You are his weakness and I couldn't figure you out, what it was you wanted from him."  
  
"I had you all figured out, was ready to get to the endgame when we spoke that night, but you were so very unexpected, unpredictable." This was the most John had ever heard Sherlock say, but he found the older man's voice lulling him into complacency, even as he spoke of his initial feelings of distrust towards John.  
  
"This morning, when Jasper deduced your mother's drug addiction, you didn't react the way I would expect most hot-headed teenagers would. I was ready to intervene, because Jasper and I are alike in the respect that we are both very honest people, without regard for things such as feelings and sentiment, and I know that it doesn't always sit well with some to have their deepest secrets laid out before them."  
  
"You were cross with him, but you forgave him almost as quickly." Now Sherlock was smiling a bit, crows feet appearing handsomely at the corners of his eyes. "I admired that about you, because it was like Jasper mentioned... That you understood him. There are very few that do."  
  
John licked his lips before replying tentatively, "So you fancy me because I understand your son, have I got that bit down?"  
  
Sherlock gave him a look that clearly conveyed his impatience with John's inability to keep up. "No, you idiot, I fancy you, because you stand apart from the rest. I fancy you because you are the first person in many years that is causing me to _feel_ things." He stretch the word feel like something bitter on his tongue, upper lips curling slightly on the e's. "That is... unprecedented."  
  
John grinned, feeling his heart swell in his chest. This is not the man he had heard such awful things about; where was all the vitriol and filth he liked to dole out to anyone he came into contact with? "So, you don't make it a habit of sleeping with all of your son's friends?" John had been ribbing him of course, but he was curious to know.  
  
Sherlock leaned forward, nipping playfully at his bottom lip before he pulled away, a more solemn mien chasing away his delight. "This isn't really my area, John. It's been years since I've allowed my flesh to take over. I have my work and also raising a son, both of which can be consuming."  
  
John felt his stomach clench in hurt, wondering if this was the only night he would get to be with Sherlock like this. He nodded in understanding, knowing what it's like to be consumed by things; not having time for anyone or anything else, least of all yourself. The only difference was that Sherlock chose to immerse himself in things, that was his lifestyle. John wasn't afforded that luxury.  
  
"However, you are becoming quite the exception, John Watson." A long, thin finger trailed intimately along John's lips. "I am inexplicably drawn to you."  
  
John scooted forward to close the gap between them, pressing his body to the lithe one beside him and pulling the cover up over his shoulder. He was positively knackered; it had been a long day.  
  
The bruise on his jaw still smarted a bit and Sherlock had pointed out that he had a large, mottled discolouration that began at the middle of his left buttock and flared down to the top of his thigh.  
  
Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist, placing a chaste kiss against John's forehead. "Sleep, we will talk more tomorrow."  
  
John nodded, already falling into a light doze before Sherlock had even finished his sentence.  
  
\---  
  


"What do you mean he got away?" A livid growl woke John out of a deep slumber, accompanied by a loud bang from the direction of the lounge room. "What must it be like in your funny little brains? Should I have come to hold your hand, because obviously you imbeciles can't make proper sense of a set of coordinates!"  
  
John squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the cover over his head, feeling bad for whatever sorry sod was on the receiving end of Sherlock's scathing diatribe. He snuggled back into the bed, happy to be out of those particular crosshairs.  
  
Sherlock sighed loudly, and John heard the sound of his body flop against the couch. "Yes well, now it's your problem. Don't call me, unless it's for a new case."  
  
The flat was quiet for a moment before the detective padded loudly back into the room. John was unhappily surprised by the sudden shock of cold air and sunlight that invaded his senses. Sherlock had ripped the sheet off and threw them carelessly into a corner of the room. "Get up, John, you've been playing at sleeping long enough now, and I'm bored."  
  
John groaned, curling up in a ball to conserve heat, wanting nothing more than to sleep for as long as possible. "Go find something to do then, and let me sleep," he grumbled, snuffling sleepily into his pillow and considering locking the older man out of his own room.  
  
"I need to think; I need a case, and for God's sake, I need tea, John!" Sherlock was worked up into a black mood, and John was unsure how to approach the situation, not having known him long enough to know what would make him happy.  
  
"Not your maid," John reminded the older man, holding up a finger in a matter-of-fact fashion, before allowing it to fall lazily back onto the bed.  
  
Sherlock stalked to the window, peering down at Baker Street with a solemn frown. The detective addressed John without turning, assuming he already had the younger male's attention. "My brother is bringing Jasper home."  
  
John sat up sharply at that, becoming aware for the first time that morning that he was completely naked. "Wh-what, I thought you said he'd be gone a few days."  
  
Sherlock's jaw was clenched as he continued to survey the people going about their daily motions. "Mycroft must have told him you were here. My brother is incapable of keeping his fat nose out of everything."  
  
John swallowed, wondering how long he had to shower and tidy up the lounge room a bit. He didn't know what kind of damning evidence they left on the floor last night. John jumped off the bed ready to fly into action, but a strong hand caught him by the arm as he passed the prone figure of his lover.  
  
"If you don't relax, Jasper will know the minute he walks through that door." Sherlock's face held more seriousness than John had seen since he met the man, and he wondered what he must look like to warrant such a specific warning.  
  
John wasn't going to pretend he wasn't dreading his friend's return, already feeling as if he was walking a  tightrope with this tentative new... whatever it was going on between he and the elder Holmes.  
  
Sherlock leant down, placing his lips over John's, and the younger male felt his body melting into him before he had even realized they were kissing.  
  
During their intercourse the night before, Sherlock was careful to keep his hands in John's sight, never traversing into unbidden territory, but now, his hands explored then supple skin of the blond's arse, gentle and curious. John exhaled against the brunette's lips, helpless to the destructive nature of Sherlock's skilled hands exacting pleasure upon him.  
  
"I won't let him have you,"Sherlock whispered, arms coming up to secure a tight grip around John's waist. "Not you."  
  
John nodded against his shoulder, trying to wrap his mind around the changes that were sure to come. How long would it be until Sherlock could hold him like this again? How long would it be before he could feel those marvelous hands running along his body, through his hair?  
  
The embrace stretched on for several minutes before John broke away, turning to head to the shower, hoping he had at least an hour to get everything done before Jasper arrived.  
  
He made quick work of his shower, making sure to leave no traces of Sherlock's expensive cologne on his body. Finally, he got dressed and went about brushing his teeth, and washing away the last of Sherlock along with it.  
  
The living room was a quick fix; just a matter of cleaning up behind Sherlock and scooping up his clothes to the throw in the laundry basket. The older man had disappeared into the shower a short while after John finished and later emerged from his room in one of his usual custom tailored suits.  
  
When there was nothing left to do, John perched in his self proclaimed chair and waited anxiously for his best friend to return home, fingers tapping restlessly against the arms of his seat. Sherlock sat opposite John in the plush black chair and folded his legs imperiously, fingers coming to steeple under chin.  
  
"Relax," he ordered, tipping his head to the door, where John could hear heavy footsteps rapidly clambering up the stairs. He would know that sound anywhere.  
  
The door swung open and there was the wild haired, bespectacled teenager of his lover, staring at John with such utter relief, he couldn't stop the sharp pang of guilt that shot through him. Jasper started forward, albeit, a bit more slowly than he'd walked through the door.  
  
"John," the other boy said warily, green eyes taking in the bruises on his jaw and neck, as well as the split lip. It wasn't as severe as the night before, but the damage still stood out starkly against John's skin, impossible not to notice.  
  
John smiled, still feeling something in him go soft whenever he was around the young Holmes. "Hey, Jas..."  
  
"You're staying." Jasper didn't ask, more like stated the obvious, but sought his confirmation, anyways.  
  
John knew what they looked like. Two estranged lovers coming together after being apart for too long, and in a way, John thought maybe that was what was happening. They had never been lovers, but closer than, without the added intimacy. John nodded.  
  
"Good," Jasper said softly, before throwing himself towards John and wrapping him in an embrace. The blond stumbled slightly with the force of his friend's weight slamming into him, but recovered quickly and found himself hugging Jasper back with just as much force.  
  
"I'm sorry for being such a tosser to you yesterday. I hate when you're cross with me." John had a perfect view of Sherlock in his line of sight as he was locked in the embrace, and he could see the perfect line the man's lips had formed, almost white with the pressure he inflicted on them. John met his eyes with an almost imperceptible nod, which of course, Sherlock caught onto with sharp, observant eyes.  
  
'Relax,' John mouthed to his lover, and Sherlock shifted, recrossing his legs in the opposite direction and pulled out his phone to tinker with. Oddly enough, his face had gone completely blank.  
  
Jasper reluctantly pulled back, and glanced over to his father, as if realizing for the first time that he and John weren't alone. "Dad," he nodded towards him. "Anything on today?"  
  
Sherlock leaned his head against the back of the chair as if he were exhausted. "According to Lestrade, I've managed to help them put away every small-time criminal in London. That, or they're getting smarter about covering their tracks, which is highly doubtful. The level of stupidity on their part is painfully appalling."  
  
Jasper chuckled lightly and turned back to John. "Dad took me on a few cases with him last week; usually they ended in us running through dark alleys and chasing bad guys."  
  
"And," Sherlock chimed in expectantly.  
  
"Aaaaand being shot at a few times, how could I possibly forget," Jasper finished, rolling his eyes playfully. "Maybe you can come with us next time."  
  
John smiled brightly, longing to experience that kind of excitement for once in his life. What must it be like to live with Sherlock Holmes?  
  
Almost immediately after, Sherlock's ringtone echoed loudly throughout the flat, drawing the attention of all three inhabitants to the mobile buzzing on the table. Without delay, a pale hand reached out and snatched it up quickly.  
  
"What," Sherlock snapped into the mobile, tone a bit surly, but face expressing hopeful excitement. John could hear the voice of a man speaking loudly through the line, probably annoyed by Sherlock's brusque acknowledgement. "We'll be there in thirty."  
  
A loud, gruff voice tinged with frustration was promptly cut off as he loudly inquired "We? Sherlock who the hell is we-"  
  
The elder Holmes wasted no time in jumping out of his seat, a whirlwind of activity, grabbing a blue scarf to wrap around his neck and throwing on the thick black coat.  
  
Finally, the older man paused, turning to look at the two teenagers, John staring in wide eyed confusion and Jasper was almost jumping out of his trousers in anticipation. "Come _on_ , we've got a case!"  
  
Jasper was the first to recover, yelling over his shoulder to wait a moment while he went to go collect his jacket, leaving the two of them alone rather unexpectedly.  
  
Sherlock looked the younger male over pensively. "Could be dangerous," he warned John, before a devious smile split across his face. "Wanna come?"  
  
John exhaled shakily, heart jumping to his throat in excitement. Sherlock was looking at him with something like hope and longing and John was sure his eyes were reflecting the same sentiments. He stepped forward and pulled Sherlock down by his lapels. The older man stared at him with unmasked desire and John knew he was thrilled by the possibility of Jasper walking in at any moment, seeing them like this, but the sudden offer of danger and adventure is what fueled him. John wanted this, wanted to feel alive.  
  
The younger male reached up and placed a slow sensuous kiss on the detective's lips before pulling away, hands still clutching tightly to his coat.  
  
"Oh, God, yes."  
  
\---  
  


It was past midnight when the three of them fell into the flat, laughing hysterically.  
  
Jasper was doubled over in amusement, very near to cackling as he rehashed the nights events. "Oh my God, did you see his face? The look- Oh God, the look!" He promptly collapsed into another laughing fit, wiping the tears from his eyes.  
  
John was unable to control himself any long, his light chuckle progressing into an embarrassing giggle. "Sherlock jumping down on him like some great bloody bird!"  
  
He and Jasper were wheezing with the need to breath. "God, that was brilliant," Jasper huffed out, "He got all caught up in dad's coat."  
  
Up until then, Sherlock had been smirking smugly, but soon his deep chuckles had joined into the cacophony, the lot of them laughing like fools in the lounge room. John threw himself on the couch, finally settling down enough to get his breath back. There had been a lot of running involved.  
  
"I don't think I've ever had that much fun before." True to Jasper's words, they had chased a couple of suspects down several alleys and crossed rooftops as shortcuts. It had been amazing and invigorating, and John had felt invincible for the first time in his life.  
  
Jasper slouched down on John's customary chair, sitting sideways with his legs on the arm of the seat. "I have to say John, the way you tackled that other guy was ace. It must be the rugby."  
  
"Honestly, I doubt he would have gone down if he had been expecting it," John replied, seeking to downplay his role a bit. Anyone could have done it, really. The man had been a big brutish fellow, and John thought the element of surprise would be the best strategy in taking him down.  
  
Jasper had helped him keep the man securely on the ground while John wrapped gaffa tape around his captive's beefy wrists.  
  
Sherlock looked surprised for once and then afterward, delighted. John had been happy to have impressed Sherlock, especially on the first case he was privy to, and hoped that soon, the detective would ask him along again next time.  
  
Jasper waved off John's modesty and laid his head sideways against the chair. "I'm knackered," he sighed, "and we have school in the morning."  
  
Suddenly John groaned, feeling a migraine coming on already as he thought about his book bag full of homework with blank answers. "Mrs. Finley is going to have our arses tomorrow if we don't have anything to turn in!"  
  
Jasper nodded sadly in assent before grudgingly dragging himself up the stairs to change out of his day clothes and retrieve his book bag. John had gone to the kitchen to make them tea for the long night ahead, assuming he was alone in the kitchen until he turned and bumped nose-to-chest with Sherlock.  
  
"Sher-," Whatever else he had been about to say was lost when John was unexpectedly drawn into a bruising kiss, his back pushing back painfully against the counter. Sherlock hitched John's thigh up over his hip and pressed close enough for John to feel his arousal through his trousers.  
  
When they pulled apart to breathe Sherlock's mellifluous voice filtered through the haze of desire, coated with lust and fervency. "You've no idea the things I want to do to you. I would have you right here," he moaned, pushing his groin against John's.  
  
John wrapped an arm around the taller man's neck, the other holding on to Sherlock's bicep. "I think I have a bit of an idea," John gasped into his lover's mouth. His fingers ran through those soft dark curls, pulling the detective's lips down to his own, into something more gentle and intimate.  
  
The sound of feet on the stairs broke them apart sooner than John wanted to be parted from their heated moment. He turned to continue the tea while, Sherlock walked unhurriedly to sit at the table.  
  
Jasper swept into the room looking decidedly more comfortable in a plain grey top and checked pyjama bottoms. "God, I feel like I haven't eaten in days. Do we have anything to nosh on?"  
  
Happy for a distraction, John made himself busy looking through the cabinets for anything edible or something he could throw together. John had been so caught up in everything, he hadn't eaten all day and his stomach was complaining loudly.  
  
Finally he found some canned beans and a loaf of bread that hadn't yet reached its expiry date. "Well, beans on toast it is."  
  
John made enough food and tea for the three of them, and they all ate silently, each lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock had taken a few bites and then promptly ignored his plate, allowing Jasper the chance to swoop down and grab it. When they were done, John and Jasper brought their book bags to the table while Sherlock sat at the island and peered at a slide through the lens of his microscope.  
  
They were halfway into their homework when John could feel a migraine coming on, and he dropped his biro on the table to run his finger over his temples.  
  
"You alright, mate," Jasper inquired, looking worriedly at his friend. "I didn't want to say anything, but you looked a little flush when I came down earlier."  
  
John froze, as did Sherlock at the island, in John's peripheral. John swallowed nervously, scratching at a spot behind his ear as he tried not to look so guilty. "'m fine," he mumbled, avoiding Jasper's gaze, "Just a bit sleepy is all."  
  
"I reckon you would be after all that running. You can sleep in my bed if you'd like, it's dad's old one so it's big enough to fit a group of five," Jasper chuckled. In the corner of his eyes, John could see Sherlock turn rigidly on his stool, almost painfully uncomfortable with the idea but unwilling to interject.  
  
John knew if he accepted, perhaps Jasper would be looking for a little more than sleep, perhaps not, but John didn't want to take the chance. A few days ago, this would have been something he would have agreed to enthusiastically, but now John felt considerably less attracted to the idea, and not a small amount of guilt.  
  
Jasper was watching him from under thick dark lashes, gauging his reaction, and the emotion behind his bespectacled green eyes wasn't wholly innocent.  
  
John blinked once, and then again, slowly, clearing his thoughts. "Really, I'm fine on the couch, and besides, I don't really sleep much throughout the night. I wouldn't want to wake you or anything."  
  
Jasper was quiet for a moment, continuing to point that laser stare at him in a terrifying likeness to his father, and John realized the older boy was closely analyzing him.  
  
Painstakingly slowly, Jasper finally dragged his eyes away and back down to his paper. "Alright," he replied, "well the offer is still on the table if you change your mind." And that was the end of that.  
  
In the corner of his vision, John could see Sherlock's tense form visibly relax as his attention returned back to the microscope, but his hand on the table stayed curled into a tight fist, belying his tumultuous thoughts.  
  
\---  
  
Three in the morning found the boys dragging themselves to their respective sleeping areas, finally having completed all of their assignments. Sherlock had disappeared into his room shortly after the uncomfortable moment with Jasper, and now, all John wanted to do was sleep before going to school in the morning.  
  
Just past four, John was finally drifting towards sleep when a noise caught his attention. The lights were off and the room was pitched in darkness when he heard a door open with a soft creak from the hinges. Light feet padded over the floor along with the light swish of fabric.  
  
John was turned on his side, facing the back of the couch and felt a long, slim body slip in behind him, wrapping wiry arms around his waist lightly. He sighed, relaxing back into Sherlock's warm body, feeling too sleepy to do anything but grunt in quiet acknowledgment.  
  
Cold lips brushed against the back of John's exposed neck, exhaling in soft, breathy puffs that made him shiver. Sherlock seemed hesitant to move any closer, and his heart was beating quickly against John's back.  
  
John turned, unable to see in the darkness, but wishing he could see his lover's face and figure out why he was being so jumpy. John sought out a shoulder in the darkness and used it as a guide to skirt up his neck and into tangled curls. He reached up and placed a reassuring kiss on Sherlock's lips and then pulled back just as quickly when the older man's breath began to come in quicker.  
  
John pulled away and sat up, reaching blindly for the lamp with fumbling hands, worried that something was seriously wrong with Sherlock, but when he clicked on the light, he realized what it was.  
  
It wasn't Sherlock, but Jasper, lips thin and looking as if he'd just... had his heart broken.  
  
"I figured there was something you weren't telling me," he started slowly, "so I thought I'd find out myself." John had never heard Jasper's voice so flat and unanimated before, and John stood, feeling intimidated and admittedly frightened.  
  
Jasper laughed bitterly, curly dark head shaking as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Dear John, poor little John, sad and alone with no one to love him. So he goes and has a fucking shag with his best friend's father. Makes for a good sob story doesn't it?"  
  
"Jasper-," John attempted to cut in, but snapped his lips shut tightly when the older boy rounded on him furiously.  
  
"Shut. Up!" John winced away from Jasper, unable to recognize his friend in his rage.  
  
John prayed that Sherlock hadn't heard, but his attempts were in vain, because a moment later, the room door opened and Sherlock stepped out, assessing the situation.  
  
"I thought you were being a little too familiar when I came down to lay with you, and then you kissed me like you'd done it before." Jasper was sneering at him with so much disgust, and John felt it harder than the blow Harry had dealt to his jaw the other day. Jasper turned to his father who was standing at the door watching him with guarded calmness.  
  
"I guess it's true what everyone says about you, hm? What was it; you're a heartless, selfish machine. Sounds about right."  
  
Sherlock didn't say anything to defend himself, just stared back at his son with no amount of apology, true to his word. "You knew what I was going to do, you know everything there is to know!" Jasper shouted, voice cracking on the end. "Just like you knew how I felt about John, and right under my nose, you stole him and ruined everything, just like every friendship I've ever. Had!"  
  
Sherlock's expression stayed perfectly neutral as he stalked forward to stand before his son, still a head taller with the added advantage of being naturally imposing. "Everything I've ever done has been for your benefit."  
  
Jasper scoffed, throwing his head back. "Yes, like shagging John behind my back, how noble of you," the younger Holmes sneered caustically.  
  
Sherlock shook his head, eyes flickering to John momentarily and then back to his son. "No," he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. "That was something else entirely.  
  
Jasper stepped back as if burned, eyes wide as he interpreted the meaning behind his father's words.  
  
John who had been listening quietly stepped forward to comfort his friend, it was Sherlock who stopped him with a sharp look.  
  
Jasper's shoulders were shaking with anger and John wished to reach forward and calm him with a soothing touch.  
  
Suddenly Jasper turned back on him, not sure who to be more angry with.  
  
"Can you see what you've done to us?" Jasper asked sadly, eyes gone cold and flinty. "Just leave; just go home."  
  
John stepped forward, looking to placate him, but just as fast as his fingers made contact, he found himself shoved back harshly onto the ground, falling onto his already bruised arse cheek.  
  
Sherlock moved into action, getting his son into the floor on his stomach with one arm pulled sharply up behind his back. He leaned down to talk closely in his son's ear slowly and firmly.  
  
"Look at where you are, and look at what you at what you are doing," Sherlock spoke as if he were coaxing a wild horse into submission. “Control yourself.”  
  
"Get off me," Jasper hissed through gritted teeth, face pressed painfully against the floor.  
  
"Remain calm and I will let you up, then we will talk about this."  
  
Jasper's struggles continued for a moment longer before reluctantly abating. His specs had fallen away from his face when he'd hit the ground, and now John could see the pain in his glassy eyes without the hindrance. Jasper stared back at John with enough betrayal to cause him to look away.  
  
No sooner had Sherlock let Jasper up than the younger boy was jumping up and away from his father disgustedly. The younger Holmes paced back and forth like a caged tiger, one hand tangled in his hair until he stopped and said to neither of them in particular, "Well, I hope the two of you are very happy together." With that being said, Jasper turned on his heels and walked out the door, footsteps echoing loudly down the stairs, followed by the finality of a slammed door.  
  
John was up and ready to go after him, but Sherlock held up a hand. "Don't," he ordered. "He's going to need time to think. Jasper will come back when he's ready."  
  
John's hands fell limply to his sides, at a loss of what to do or what to say. In just three days John had torn Jasper's little family apart, and he felt like a wretched tosser. Sherlock was peering out the window silently, face set in a solemn mask that John couldn't decipher the meaning of.  
  
John sighed, standing on trembling legs. "I should... get my things, I-," he sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the weight of it all settle heavily on his shoulders. "I'm sorry Sherlock, that I came in between you and Jasper."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, John, you have nowhere else to go," Sherlock stated not unkindly. His face was curiously blank, offering no clues as to how he was feeling.  
  
John walked to the kitchen, feeling listless and empty, and began packing up his book bag with the papers he'd left on the table. John slung the bag over his shoulder and headed to the lounge room."I could go home, mum wouldn't care," he mumbled in delayed reply to Sherlock's earlier statement.  
  
He grabbed his bag from the place by the door where he had dropped it the day before and gave it a perfunctory look-over. John inhaled deeply, curbing the tears that wanted to spill over, not wanting to say goodbye to the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.  
  
When he turned to say his farewell, he found Sherlock watching him with what John could only describe as hurt. Here was a man everyone said couldn't feel, and now he was finally showing John that he was not a complete machine. Sherlock may not understand emotions like others, but sometimes he felt them, even if they confused him. That, John could understand.  
  
Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed as he braced himself to speak, hands wrapped around himself protectively. "While I won't try to stop you if leaving is what you truly want, I want you to know that it is not my wish for you to do so."  
  
John faltered, wanting to offer comfort, but feeling compelled to leave and make things right with Jasper, or rather subtract himself from the equation. He looked down at the ground, wishing it could open up and swallow him below. The only friend he had was gone and the only man he'd ever felt so strongly for was said friends' father. John wanted to punch himself for playing the innocent victim in this, when in reality, Jasper was the only one who held the rights to any such title.  
  
"John..."  
  
The younger male looked up to the man standing across the room and like an epiphany, he realized how selfish he was being. Sherlock needed him. His son had just walked away from them both, and all of it was by John's own doing. What kind of man would he be to walk away and leave such ruin in his wake.  
  
He remembered Sherlock's words from before, telling him that they couldn't change the past, but he would never apologize for what they did, what they had... Have.  
  
John dropped his bags to the floor and made his way back to the older man who watched him cautiously, hands dropped into clenched into fists by his sides.  
  
"Will you stay?" Sherlock asked quietly, pale eyes boring into his own, looking for the answer.  
  
John reached out a hand, waiting for Sherlock to grab hold of it. Sherlock scanned him for any falsehoods, hesitantly moving forward, eyes flicking from John's face, to his hand, and back again.  
  
Finally, Sherlock took his hand, lips in a tight line as he interlaced their fingers and looked at John from under heavy brows.  
  
John led him out of the lounge and towards the bedroom, Sherlock willingly following. He flicked the lights as they went, leaving the darkness behind.  
  
\---  
  
Part 1  
  
Fin.  
  


  
  



	2. The darkest evening of the year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um... oops. Haha! I guess this is going to be a three-shot. I didn't want to leave you all in suspense, and also I was very much inspired and motivated to write this chapter. Thank you all so much for your support of my story, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Also, on a side note, I have ventured into my first tumblr foray. I was approached by a read who asked if I had a tumblr, and I am ashamed to say that I am a lurker, and have no real idea how to use it, but if anyone is curious, here is my url. I suppose if I learn how to use it, I will post update info, or excerpts, if anyone would be interested. 
> 
> http://lymphadei.tumblr.com/

It's been three weeks since Jasper fled 221B, and counting. John didn't quite know what to think of Jasper's disappearance, nor the situation he'd found himself entangled in. The only thing he wanted was to go out into the night and search for his best friend, but if he was anything like his father, Jasper wouldn't be found.

The new relationship(?) between Sherlock and himself was tenuous at best. They hadn't touched one another much since the night of the big row, and Sherlock never took it any further than chaste caresses and barely there meeting of the lips.

Sherlock was very good at pretending he wasn't affected by Jasper leaving, but every night, John would watch him stand at the window, drawing his bow across the violin in a slow, melancholy tune that pulled at John in ways he'd rather not think of. He wanted to make things right between Sherlock and Jasper, and if that meant his leaving, John wouldn't hesitate to make that sacrifice.

It seemed like everything was falling from beneath his feet, but John couldn't even begin to fathom what Sherlock was feeling.

The first weeks, John had tried Jasper's mobile repeatedly, against Sherlock's advice. Sometimes five times a day he would attempt to call or text, until one day he'd received a message that the phone had been disconnected. Afterwards, John had locked himself in the bathroom for over an hour, feeling desolate and at a loss of what to do. He'd slumped down the wall and hung his head between his knees, practicing breathing exercises and trying to hold back the well of tears.

Sherlock never came to look for him. The man had been in and out of the flat most of the week doing God knows what, without extending an invitation to John as he had before. It was as close to rejection as John had ever gotten, and so he kept his distance, allowing Sherlock the space to deal with this travesty in his own way.

The second week, John had finally met the infamous Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock had been working on an experiment in the kitchen, while John sat on the lounge room floor, attempting to concentrate on his homework, when the sound of footsteps on the stairs averted his attention.

A loud sigh from the direction of the kitchen was the only indication John received, that no, it was not Jasper, and no, it was also not someone that was particularly welcomed here.

The unknown visitor had stepped inside the room without any of the usual niceties when coming into someone's home, such as knocking or saying hello.

It was a thin-haired man in an expensive Gieves and Hawkes tailored three piece suit. The man's aquiline nose perched highly into the air as he surveyed John curiously for a moment in shrewd silence, before turning to the direction of the kitchen.

"Sherlock, I've come to speak with you on matters of high import, if you will put away your toys and come to the lounge room." The man's nasally voice grated irritatingly on the ears, and John suddenly had a spark of insight as he realized just who exactly was standing before him.

Sherlock only confirmed John's assumption with a contemptuous "Oh, piss off, Mycroft."

The unexpected swear from Sherlock left John bemused and uncomfortable, so he gathered his books and put them away, having a feeling he wasn't going to be able to focus after hearing what the man had to say. Mycroft eyed his every move with a curious tilt to his head, no doubt wondering just who John was and what exactly he was doing there, and eventually, he opened his mouth and said as much.

"What business have you with my brother," the question was stated bluntly with no greeting prior to or subsequently, which left John floundering for a way to respond to Mycroft's inquisition. Fortunately, Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, scowling at his brother as he flopped down into his chair.

"I believe that's none of your concern, Mycroft," Sherlock spat, "now get to why you're here. You've already overstayed your welcome."

The words were scathing, but the man didn't even blink, as if this were a daily occurrence. John wondered idly why there was so much animosity between the brothers, but then he remembered Sherlock stating that Mycroft was incapable of minding his own business.

"I've come to inquire about my nephew. Where is he, Sherlock, and why is he not here?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed a fraction as Sherlock glared at the wall, tight lipped, unwilling to cooperate with the older man. Mycroft pointed an accusing finger at John, who sat up straighter at the action, looking between the two brothers. "Who is he? It would be impudent of you to answer me, Sherlock, because what my sources are informing me could surely get you locked away for not a short amount of time, brother dear."

Sherlock growled and jumped out of his seat, coming to pace before Mycroft, who only stood tapping an umbrella patiently against the wood floor. "Of course you have people watching us; I can't even have any privacy in my own home. Tell me," Sherlock stopped, an arms length before his brother, attempting to stare him down, to which Mycroft held his ground, "what have your 'sources' told you of my current situation?"

"That you have brought this child into your home, and engaged in disreputable acts with him." The words were spoken in such a way, you would think he were speaking about the weather, but the man's cold, grey eyes had gone steely. "Not only that, brother mine, I've done my research, and it appears that our Jasper and John Watson are quite close."

John could feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest. This man knew his name and of his connection to Jasper without John having ever said a word. Who was he and how did he know so much?

Sherlock scoffed coldly, "Then I'm sure you're aware that Jasper has invited John to live here."

Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella against the floor twice, a titter of light amusement emerging from the back of his throat. "Yes, and I'm sure that offer extended to your bed, did it?"

Oh, get out Mycroft. If you don't have any information for me on the whereabouts of my son, then you are useless. Leave." Sherlock continued his pacing, looking more like a caged animal by the minute, curly hair wild and tangled with neglect.

Mycroft appeared as if he were resisting the urge to roll his eyes, yet remained perfectly poised, watching his brother teeter on the edge. "I don't advise this relationship to go forth between you and Mr. Watson. Things could get very ugly, _very_ quickly."

"For your sake, Mycroft," Sherlock had transformed from a jittery ball of nerves to an agile predator in the blink of an eye as he stalked to stand toe-to-toe with the older Holmes, "I do hope that wasn't a threat."

Mycroft stared back squarely, not showing the least bit that he might be intimidated. John stood, ready to interfere if he must, but Sherlock held a hand out in his direction, not once breaking eye contact with his brother.

Stay out of it.

Mycroft didn't spare John so much as a glance.

"I don't issue threats, dear brother. That was a warning. If you don't send him away, I will personally see to it that Jasper does not return here, should we cross paths."

John felt his stomach drop at these words and had to swallow several times. There was no reason that this man shouldn't be believed. He didn't seem the type to make idle threats or issue promises he couldn't keep. The fact that Sherlock hadn't attacked Mycroft yet, meant the man might wield a considerable amount of power over him.

Sherlock's fists were balled at his sides, and John could almost see him vibrating with anger. He hadn't meant for any of this to happen, and now this posh arsehole was here threatening to keep Sherlock's son away from him.

"Get out," Sherlock seethed between gritted teeth, body trembling with fury. When the man hesitated, Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder, none too gently, and pushed him through the front door. He didn't allow the man time to recover, instead he'd closed the door on him and locked and bolted it for good measure.

Downstairs, John could hear Mrs. Hudson come out of her flat and speak briefly with Mycroft, before the ground floor door opened and shut quietly.

Afterwards, Sherlock sank into a black mood for the duration of the day, one so severe, John felt suffocated by the animosity and tension. He'd slunk out of the flat and walked to Regent's Park where he sat for hours on the bench and watched people go on with their normal lives. For the umpteenth time in his life, John wished for one as well.

One week has passed since then, and John found himself looking into options for starting a military career. With no sign of Jasper, and Sherlock's continual mood swings and self-imposed distancing, John knew he didn't have much of a place at the Holmes residence any longer. 

At night, he rarely slept anymore, though, and when he did, Jasper almost always made a debut. Those green eyes blighted with a sheen of tears, and the betrayal, hurt; never had John thought that anything he did could inflict that sort of pain on anyone. 

_'Can you see what you've done to us?'_

John will never forgets those words; they stayed with him every day, because yes, _yes_ he could see exactly what he'd done. He couldn't stand to look in the mirror anymore, to see the one person staring back at him that he hated the most. Hell, _Sherlock_ could barely stand to look at him any longer; his gravest mistake, his deepest regret. 

_'Can you see what you've done to us?'_

\---

Things continued to decline in the weeks following, to no surprise of John, until things finally came to a head one evening.

It'd been a long day at school, even longer without Jasper's continued presence. His best friend had been the only real thing John could look forward to, where school was involved, at least. Jasper had been a light spot that John's personal life at home, with his mum and sister, couldn't touch. Now, he was fighting even more demons than before, while constantly trying to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel. John wasn't sure if there truly was a light at the end of this whole, sordid mess, but something had to happen, there had to be a silver lining.

John was walking home, counting the steps beneath his feet, that would take him to a house just as empty as the one before it, and he wasn't ready to face it just yet.

His backpack was heavy with unfinished papers and work he'd never be able to concentrate on.

John just wanted his best friend back, and for Sherlock not to resent him so much. 

So deep in thought was he, that John nearly missed the Jaguar XJ gliding silently on the street, slowed to an unhurried speed to match his pace. At first, he ignored it, and continued forward, thoughts on what he would make for dinner, or whether he should just snag something for himself, seeing as Sherlock's nightly schedule was unpredictable. 

In his peripheral, one heavily tinted backseat window slowly rolled down, revealing a smooth-faced Mycroft Holmes. John stopped, confused and wary of the man on many levels. What did he want? Was he going to forcibly remove John from the Holmes household? Would he be able to say goodbye to Sherlock?

"Mr. Watson, I'm afraid I don't have all day to follow you. Please, get into the car." Mycroft's tone was polite, but there was a crisp, cold edge to his words that left John with no doubts that this was not a request; it was an order. 

For a moment, John could only stand there like a fool, weighing the pros and cons of getting into that vehicle with a man who wanted nothing more than to make him disappear. 

Life altering decisions seemed to be the name of the game, lately.

"Mr. Watson, time is not on your side," Mycroft bit out impatiently, pulling John from his internal struggle with a clipped locution.

John thought of an empty flat on Baker street and shrugged. There was nothing for it, but to get into the vehicle with Mycroft Holmes.

The driver exited the vehicle, and opened the door for John, who slid in reluctantly, nodding to the blank faced valet in thanks.

The interior was drowning in opulence, all rich, black leather, and state-of-the-art technology. The man across from him was dressed in another tailored suit; crisp, straight lines and a forbidding expression. Mycroft was different from Sherlock in almost every way, except the eyes.  The brothers shared that cool, calculating gaze that zeroed in with the uncanny ability to see through any façade.

The man crossed his legs, one hand fingering the handle of his umbrella, absently, sizing John up.

"John Watson, I'd say it was a pleasure to meet you, but the circumstances under which we meet are rather... unfortunate, wouldn't you say?" Mycroft was watching him steadily, keen gaze scanning and filing away every movement, every twitch and blink, and possibly every thought that crossed his mind. Could Mycroft see the fear, the loss, the hurt, the longing in John to see his best friend again, and the rejection of Sherlock?

John could only stare back, weary and wishing that the man would get on with it.

Mycroft only smiled, fake and razor-sharp. It unsettled John, and he had the sudden thought that he might not see another day. "You've done an amazing thing, Mr. Watson, something I've always thought was highly improbable." Mycroft paused, narrowing his eyes at the younger male, before continuing. "Sherlock has never been a very emotional man. My brother and I, as little as we get along, share much the same thoughts on sentiment and the disadvantages thereof. I never thought for once that a sixth form student from a broken home would be the one to break through such a long-standing barrier."

John didn't know what to say to Mycroft's admission, nor the alarming fact that the man knew so much about him. If John's breath was coming in a little quicker, his hands bunching up into the leather seats, Mycroft made no mention of it.

"While I have no doubts that you are an exceptional young man, John, you simply do not have a place in my brother's life." Of course, he was right. John didn't have a place in Sherlock's life, nor Jasper's, or this rich bloke with the fancy umbrella, that John wished to shove up the nosey bugger's arse.

John peered out the window, noticing that they were moving in a slow crawl down the same street he'd been picked up on. How many times had they gone round the same block without him even noticing?

Across from him, Mycroft shifted, just a chafing of cloth, noise to attract John's attention, once more. "You know, when my family found out that Sherlock had a child on the way, we tried to convince him to look into adoption. Jasper's mother was an addict, as was Sherlock at the time. They were both young and foolish, allowed their flesh to guide them through the high, and eleven months later, a few months following Jasper's birth, Irene was gone. Picked up by a gentlemen who promised her vast fortune and power." Mycroft's eyes were dark and far away as he recounted a part of Sherlock's past that John hadn't been privy to, before.

"That left Sherlock alone with a baby, himself still a child. I'd had a list drawn up of the best adoption agencies in London, but Sherlock would have none of it. Jasper gave him purpose where there was none, prior to. So you see, now, Mr. Watson, why I am urging you to stay as far away from my brother and nephew as possible." The words were deceptively soft, but John heard the warning behind them, the promise. This was a man that would stop at nothing to protect his family. If there was anything that John knew well, it was the knowledge that love could be a vicious motivator, an instigator of many dark things, and this was a line he didn't want to cross.

"As a thanks to you for your  friendship to my nephew, I have a proposition for you." John swallowed and nodded; speechless, dazed and empty, as the man procured a manila folder from the empty seat beside him. "I understand you've been making inquiries into the Royal Army Medical Corps. I have your enlistment papers here. You need only sign them, and your place in the RAMC will be certifiable."

John stared. He might as well be without a tongue, because he couldn't get his lips to move, couldn't push the words out, get them past his larynx. Mycroft was holding out the folder, expectantly patient, but John couldn't move. His strings were cut and his equilibrium was off.

This was it. Another life-altering decision that would change everything.

Wasn't this what he wanted? An out? Didn't he want to mend the relationship between Jasper and Sherlock? There was no way that could happen while he was still involved with Jasper's father. Things would continue to fester, and Jasper would resent him, and Sherlock would never want to lay eyes on him again. Could be live with himself if he didn't let them have their chance to reunite, without the burden of betrayal and anger, and this wedge between them that was a sixth former from a broken home?

Mycroft wanted an answer, immediately, a 'yes' or 'no' would suffice, but John couldn't give it to him; not like this, not in his scattered state of mind.

"I...I can't decide yet. I need time," John stated, keeping his eyes downcast at his hands, wringing nervously in his lap.

The man across him sighed deeply, like a man heavily burdened. There was no real commiseration in his eyes, though his voice held the low coaxing of an adult with a child. "Time really is not on your side, in this matter, I'm afraid. However, as a show of good faith that you will come to the right decision, I'll allow you a week of consideration. Despite my protestations to your presence in my brother's life, I'm not a cruel man. Do use this week to say your goodbyes, Mr. Watson. Whether the army is your choice or otherwise, it will be the last time you will see Sherlock."

The car pulled smoothly to the kerb, a block away from Baker Street. John didn't know what to say to any of it, so he said nothing at all. The valet was at the door again, pulling it open for John to step out. When the door was shut behind him, the window rolled down for the last time. A pale, slender hand held out a simple white card with an embossed insignia on the top, left corner. A name and number were the only other features; no address, and completely vague, like the man, himself.

"Here's my contact information should you come to a decision. Choose wisely, Mr. Watson."

Not even tinted windows could hide those piercing eyes and the intent behind them. No matter John's choice, he was sure that this man would never allow him to step foot in 221B after the week was over.

\---

"Where were you?"

Sherlock was standing by the window, looking down over Baker Street like a watchful guardian.

That was the most he'd said to John in the last few days, and it was unexpected enough to stop him at the threshold.

Sherlock's words were calm, but his eyes were the grey before a storm, dark and choleric. "I asked you to get milk an hour ago."

John sighed, vexed with the older man. This hadn't been the first time Sherlock hadn't realized he'd not been home. So caught up was he in the whirlwind of his own mind, nothing else could penetrate it, not even John's absence. It hurt in the way that made his heart drop to his stomach, and his legs weak with sorrow and indignation. That first day they'd met, Sherlock had been so attuned to him, wondering of his association with Jasper, and then there was fascination and lust and hunger, all aimed at John. Now, there was that stare, so distracted and shuttered off from him. All the wonder and excitement, spirited away with Jasper's disappearance.

John shrugged off his backpack, sitting it by the front door, before turning to meet the eyes boring into him from across the room. "I've been at school, Sherlock, not that you'd notice, anyways."

He hadn't meant for it to come out as crossly as it had, but he was tired of it all. This was a mess he hadn't meant to make, and God, if it wasn't killing him, he didn't know what was. Sherlock wasn't dropping his gaze or looking away, for the first time in weeks, and John could feel the acuity of those eyes, wondering over him, deducing. It was maddening, and everything he wanted from the start, but now it just made him feel like a broken, scattered mess.

"Look, Sherlock," John began, shoving his hands into his pockets, uncomfortably, "I want to help you find Jasper."

Sherlock scoffed, loud and baleful, a sound that cut through the air with a sharp ring. "If Jasper wanted to be found, he would have done already. What you can do, is make tea."

The answer was terse, and everything John expected Sherlock to say. He'd been short and clipped with John since Mycroft's visit, and his actions spoke volumes.

Now that Jasper was gone, and not likely to return soon, the offer to stay was rescinded, and John's presence was no longer wanted or needed.

John smiled, blatantly forced, and gave a rueful shake of his head. He couldn't do this anymore. He would leave, and call the number Mycroft left with him. It was the only choice he had. There was no way that he could go back to a darkened house where every corner was haunted, and look into the glazed eyes of his mother. That could not be John Watson's life any longer.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not going to make you tea. I'm not going to stay here, while you go out and do whatever it is that you do every night. I _can't_ do this... anymore." John resented the fact that he couldn't say what he wanted without that damnable crack in his voice. "I see it every time you look at me, Sherlock, _when_ you look at me. I see all the anger and the regret. Maybe I don't deduce the way you do, but I have eyes that work fine."

Sherlock wasn't saying anything, though his eyes burned like the sun; luminescent and blinding in their intensity. It was the first time in what felt like ages that John finally had Sherlock's full attention.

"I miss Jasper, too," John said through a tight throat. He felt like he couldn't breathe, the air was so thick with tension. "I know he's your son, but he's my best friend, and what _we_ did to him, Sherlock, I don't know how I could stay here. He'll never come back if I stay."

Sherlock finally moved, turning fully towards John, resplendent, even in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, with that gown thrown over. Even in this madness, Sherlock was beautiful and mesmerizing, but his face was dark and malevolent, like a vengeful spirit.

When he opened his mouth to speak, John could only brace himself for the scathing retort. "Maybe that would be for the best, then. After all, Jasper is really the only reason your presence here was tolerated. Now that he's left, you can see yourself out."

It was more than he'd expected, and if John were honest with himself, less than he'd deserved. It was short and cutting, and callous. Sherlock was going straight for the jugular, and his aim had been precise. Could he expect any less from a man like Holmes?

John blinked once, and then again, steeling his resolve. "All right," he nodded, then swept past the man without a word. The door to Sherlock's room was open, and John went straight to the closet, grabbing the clothes Sherlock had him hang up the night he made John promise to stay. It felt so wrong, and everything in John screamed that this wasn't the way to go.

His body was an automaton, and his mind was a scattered mess of questions and anxieties.

Sod it all.

What did he have to lose by telling Mycroft yes, _yes, yes,_ take him anywhere, but here, take him anywhere, but home. None of it mattered.

"You were with Mycroft." It was as statement, not a question. "I would know my brother's obnoxious fumes anywhere. Tell me, what did he offer you?" Sherlock was right there when he turned around, permeating the air around him, thickening it, quickening John's heartbeat until it threatened to beat right out of his chest. 

All the anger had fled from Sherlock's eyes, replaced by the curiosity, the need to know. All that stood between John and the door was Sherlock's addiction to knowledge.

John tried to walk around him, but Sherlock was over six feet of solid body, all encasing him in a closeted fortress. "Sherlock...," John growled, as though he had the means to make Sherlock move, when all he wanted to do was fall into him. The infuriating berk wasn't going to move until he'd discovered all that there was to know. "He just wanted to know about my association with you."

"Elevated breathing, dilated pupils, body language, come now, John. You're dreadfully easy to read, so tell me, what did he _offer_ you?" Sherlock was standing near, John could feel his body heat in waves, washing over him along with the dulcet fragrance of his aftershave, and the stale scent of cigarettes.

John reared back, unable to breath, unable to think properly with Sherlock so close. "What does it matter? If it will get me out of your hair, why do you care, hm?"

"I know Mycroft; he will only offer something he could use to his advantage. You're leaving, so I can only come to the conclusion that you will accept."

For the first time since he'd met Sherlock, John found himself hating the man for his brilliance and insight. He wouldn't leave well enough alone.  "The RAMC, he's ensured that I'll get into the RAMC. Are you happy now, you daft bastard? You will never see me again," John hissed, standing on his toes, in Sherlock's slack face. "Ever."

Sherlock was as still as a sculpture. His face had lost its heat, along with the wash of anger, and now he portrayed the lost, distant man he'd been for weeks. His pale eyes stared down at John with veiled emotions, deceptively blank, even though there was sure to be more than he could ever know happening in that intelligent mind.

All of the resistance seeped from his body in the face of Sherlock's sombre introspection. John didn't want to fight this battle any longer. He couldn't stay.

"Sherlock," John called softly, wishing he could reassure him, but for all he knew, this was good news to Sherlock.

Sherlock focused those laser point eyes on him, unbearably astute, "How long did he give you?" His voice was low and strained, yet his eyes were an amalgamation of emotions he couldn't force past his lips. Things he would never be able to say, just on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, and none of it would ever reach John's ears.

John looked away, shuffling awkwardly with the bag of clothes in his hands. "A week," he muttered, "regardless if I choose the RAMC or not."

Sherlock turned away, bringing his hands up to run through his hair in distress. It was confusing, though John felt the word was a misnomer for all the things Sherlock was making him feel. He thought that Sherlock would be happy.

"John, you can't," Sherlock huffed out, beseeching, low and tormented, and if that didn't alert John to the fact that Sherlock had been putting on a good farce, earlier, then nothing else would. "You could stay here, in London. I know places where Mycroft cannot see; we could meet there-"

John was shaking his head halfway through Sherlock's soliloquy, because no matter how hard they hid, there would always be someone willing to talk. John would risk himself, before he interfered between the presence of Jasper in his father's life. He couldn't be the reason that Sherlock never saw his son again. John didn't want to be the source of constant discourse. 

"We can't, Sherlock. Just - it's not possible."

Sherlock turned on him, quick and relentless. This close, John could catalog the redness of his eyes from lack of sleep, every new crack in his porcelain features, the added stress. It was all so visible, and everything he'd missed the last few weeks, as caught up in his own self-pity as he'd been.

Jasper was Sherlock's son, his _son_ , and he was gone, and Sherlock was worried. How could John have missed this? The lashing out, the long nights out, all of it amounted to Jasper's leaving and Sherlock unable to find his child. John couldn't imagine the feeling.

John stepped forward, slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, hesitant. Sherlock only watched him, though his chest heaved with the weight of his despair.

This was a man trying to hold himself together.

Sherlock allowed John to step close, bring his arms to wrap around a narrow waist. Sherlock didn't relax into the hold immediately, but he didn't push John away, either. The younger male laid his head on the chest before him, listening to the steady rhythm of Sherlock's heart, a reassuring constant in his ears.

"It's the only way, Sherlock," he whispered, blinking past the tears that muddled his vision."Jasper will come back, and that's all that matters."

Sherlock relaxed in increments, until he came to rest his head over John's, and his arms around the smaller male's shoulders. John's heart was beating a crescendo in his chest at the intimacy of the hold. Two hurting hearts pressed against one another through layers of fabric, beating the same song of longing and sadness and hope, and faith.

"I'll never forgive Mycroft for this," Sherlock murmured against the bed of tousled, blond hair, sullen and tired.

John pressed his face into the embrace, afraid to let go. "He loves you, Sherlock, he's just looking out for your best interests."

"Then he would allow you to stay in my life without interference," Sherlock growled, though there wasn't any real fire behind the words, just resigned exhaustion.

John smiled, though he felt sombre and empty at the thought of his inevitable departure. "I don't think I've ever had this much excitement in my life, before."

Sherlock pulled away, bringing his hands up to cup John's cheeks in a reverent touch that left his skin singing. "I could give you excitement everyday of your life, should you choose to stay." The words were a desperate plea underneath a guise of playfulness. Sherlock wanted him to stay, wanted him, though it was obvious that the man was just as conflicted. Jasper was his son, his blood and all he'd had for years, while John had been an entirely different experience for Sherlock.

John couldn't make him choose. Jasper would always come first to his father.

John didn't respond, though he rose on his toes and planted a light kiss on Sherlock's lips. It was soft and sweet, and everything he wished their short time together could have been.

Sherlock didn't let him go, but pulled him closer, to melt against his body.

Large hands pulled him forward for a slow, ardent caress of lips. Everything inside John felt so scattered and chaotic under Sherlock's touch. Those lips moving against his own, as hypnotizing as a metronome. John craved the warmth of large hands sliding down his vertebrae, pushing him into a warm body.

He brought his hands up to wrap around the long, graceful neck, bent to devour him with relished fervor.

"Give me this," Sherlock whispered into his mouth; John thought it might be the breath of life. "Give me this before you leave me."

There was nothing for it, John thought; nothing at all.

\---

Part 2

Fin.


	3. But I have promises to keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some descriptions of war in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any errors you may see here and feel free to point them out. I currently do not have beta for any of my stories. If you'd like to volunteer, please do contact me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com).

It was cold – cold and dark, and Jasper desperately rubbed his hands together to generate heat. It kept his uncovered fingers from becoming frostbitten, but after a while, not even this would be enough.

Jasper was tired, so tired of running, but he couldn't go home. Wouldn't. Couldn't stomach the thought of his father and- and John. He'd loved John, was ready to ask his friend to be with him. It would be okay if they didn't have sex right away, because John deserved more than that, anyway. 

Instead, he'd lost John to the most unlikely person, and the knowledge of that hurt more than anything else. Jasper hated his father for it, but even then, with that dreadful emotion dredging up awful thoughts about the man who raised him, Jasper could still say that he missed him dearly.

Since he'd left home, Jasper had drifted from place to place, never staying in one for too long, knowing that his father and Uncle Mycroft were looking for him. It was nearly impossible to avoid every CCTV camera, but the clothes he'd purchased from Oxfam created a better disguise. Someone had stolen his glasses the night before at the shelter, and so he squinted into the distance, searching for signs of a tail. 

There were always eyes on him now, though no one ever approached. It was most likely his father's homeless network keeping tabs on him. Jasper had paid a few to keep silent on his whereabouts, but a few were staunchly loyal to Sherlock, who was likely to find out regardless if they agreed.

Everybody knew he was Sherlock Holmes' son, and many refused to help him hide; they didn't think the trouble was worth it. Jasper's resources were dwindling, and the money he'd grabbed before Uncle Mycroft froze his accounts was nearly depleted. 

It was late. The shelters were filled for the night, so Jasper would have to find a place to sleep. It had been three days since his last wash in the loo at a restaurant he didn't even remember the name of. The water had been tepid and the instant rush of cold air on his skin upon emerging was harsh and biting. He missed the comfort of a warm bed and hot tea. The free cup they gave out at the shelter were always bitter and over-steeped. Jasper was sick to death of soup and he would kill for a bacon butty. 

All of this, he thought, because he wanted to make a point, but it seemed like the joke was on him. What had he thought he would accomplish by leaving home? There was no where to go, and John had been his closest friend. Sure he had others, but they were only good for sharing spliffs and the occasional wild do. He missed 221B and to be honest, he missed his father. He hated him, but he still fondly remembered nights spent bent over mould spores and decaying toes, dripping acid from a pipette to see how quickly the skin would melt away. As sordid as it was, those times with his father meant the most, and now he had to be deprived of it because Sherlock suddenly decided that his libido was in working order, and with _John_ of all people!

Jasper shook his head to himself and kept walking, pulling the fleece cap tighter over his curls. Nothing for it now, he figured. He would have to make due with the park bench and hope that his father didn't happen by him. Jasper knew he was looking for him, and it was quite a risk sleeping outside of the shelter. Jasper hadn't even don't _that_ for weeks, knowing a shelter would be the first place Sherlock would look. Instead he’d kipped out on a ruddy old sofa in a drug den and made sure all his money was well hidden before dropping off into a doze. 

Being on the run was more work than Jasper thought possible, but between his father being a genius and his uncle running the government and all, Jasper thought he was been doing quite well. 

It seemed he spoke too soon, however. No sooner than the thought came to him, a black saloon rounded the corner, moving incrementally down the block, suspiciously slow. 

Jasper inhaled sharply, immediately regretting it when the frosty air invaded his air supply, stinging as it nipped the back of his throat and settled. “Fuck,” Jasper hissed, and turned on his heel, walking quickly in the opposite direction. 

_‘Fuck, fuck, FUCK!’_ he thought in rage. Couldn't they just leave him be? It was obvious that Jasper didn't want to be found. 

He turned a quick corner, jogging to cross the busy intersection before the light changed. In his peripheral, the CCTV loomed ominously, following his progress until he ducked into an alley, out of sight. Jasper was in an unfamiliar part of the borough, which he hadn't thought possible. He’d traveled much of London with his father for the simple reason that Sherlock didn't want him to call if he ever got lost. Getting lost is tedious, his father would say, and that it's important that Jasper knows his surrounding at all times. That way, if he stumbled across a good murder, Jasper would know the proper directions to relay over the phone. 

Jasper glanced over his shoulder, but the saloon either had not seen him or was taking another route to find him. 

On the side of an abandoned flat, Jasper spotted a ladder leading up to a fire escape, and so he pulled it down, intending to climb inside the building and wait it out, but suddenly, there was a voice at the mouth of the alley, shouting at him.

“Oi, you! Get down from there!”

Jasper didn't think twice before he was climbing up the ladder and wriggling through an empty window sill. The interior was stale and dusty, empty, but Jasper didn't spare a minute on the layout. He shot out of the room into an empty, dank corridor. He had to find the exit. 

Somewhere in the building, he could hear noise. Jasper edged down the hallway on the balls of his feet, attempting to keep his steps as light as possible. It was a four storey building, so he had a bit of time before whoever was searching for him completed their review of each floor. Jasper turned another corner and nearly fled, but saw that it was only a junkie passed out against the wall, a needle still lodged in his arm. 

Jasper stopped quickly to raise the man’s wrist and check for a pulse. It was customary to do now, after a brief stint in which his father had relapsed. After an intervention from Uncle Mycroft and Jasper’s grandparents, as well as several threats to remove Jasper from his care, the situation had been resolved, thankfully. 

Jasper continued on, wincing as his shoes crunched loudly over broken glass. For a moment, he froze as did the other noise in the building. They had heard.

Jasper abandoned the notion of stealth and shot down the hallway. There was a door at the end and a sign that displayed a set of stairs. The door was a heavy, metal nuisance but with a few hard yanks, Jasper was able to wrench it open and fly down the stairs. It should lead to an exit, Jasper thought. At the base of the stairs, Jasper breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one there and he could still hear where they were searching for him In the halls, kicking open doors and making too much noise for men who’d successfully invaded underground bunkers of known enemies of the government. This seemed tactless. 

Smiling, Jasper slipped out the exit and pulled his fleece cap lower, until it nearly shielded his eyes. Finally, his thoughts began to slow and his heart rate declined into normalcy. He could breathe again, happy to know that he put confrontation off for another day. He wasn't ready to see his family yet. 

There was a cafe around the corner that threw away extra food at closing time. If he could make it there before the others, he might be able to find something good. 

“Really, Jasper, you're much too similar to your father in all the worst ways.” 

Jasper stopped and stared straight ahead, afraid to turn around. He was such an idiot! Of course it had been a diversion. His uncle would never hire people so sloppy. Jasper should have kept close to the shadows and kept his head down. He’d gotten careless and arrogant; two things his father always warned him about, though Sherlock could often be both himself, at times.

A sigh. “Do get in Jasper. I've already exasperated my resources for the night and I really don't want to have to force you.”

Jasper’s shoulders fell and he turned to regard his uncle with weary eyes. “Uncle Mycroft,” he greeted enthusiastically, his eyes glued to the pavement. 

“Hello, Jasper,” Mycroft said and stood away from the car door, his hand motioning for Jasper to get in. “I've been looking everywhere for you.”

Jasper stepped into the car, rolling his eyes. Dramatic, as always. 

Jasper slid down the bench until he was snug against the opposite door, his muscles relaxing as the warm air sank through his clothes and settled on his skin like a soft blanket. 

Mycroft sat on the other side and crossed one knee over the other, angling his body towards his nephew. “Care to tell me where you've been these past few weeks?”

Jasper crossed his arms over his chest and stared resolutely out the window, his lips twitching downward in a dismayed arc. He had nothing to tell and he hoped to convey that he hadn't wanted to be helped or saved, or whatever his uncle thought that he was doing. “I've nothing to tell,” he responded impassively, despite the urge he felt to scream. He didn't want to go home. He had nothing to say to his father or John. 

“Well, you certainly will have some explaining to do to your father,” Mycroft said lightly. 

As the car stopped at a light, Jasper tried the handle, but it didn't budge. “Let me out,” he growled, scooting back so he’d have room to kick at the door. 

“Jasper, stop this at once,” Mycroft demanded loudly, knocking on the partition twice for the driver to pull over. He rarely ever raised his voice, so when Jasper heard it, he stopped mid-kick swiveled to face his uncle, abashed as he spied the angry flush of red on Mycroft’s cheek. “I understand that you are angry with your father, but he has been searching for you without fail since you ran. In fact, I understand why you did it, but do you plan on running forever?” 

Jasper was so angry and now there were tears burning in his eyes. He wasn't ready to go back. “I don't want to go back,” he said, nearly inaudible above the chaos of traffic outside the car. His fingers shook in his lap, and Jasper wanted to hide them between his thighs because they made him appear vulnerable. 

Mycroft sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Finally, he looked up, and Jasper finally saw past his own rage and embarrassment and at the evidence before him. Mycroft was pale and there were dark pouches below his eyes. The wrinkles bordering his lips seemed more pronounced and he looked like he’d skipped more than a few meals. The guilt came first, and then the ache in his chest when he thought about what he put his uncle through, possibly even his grandparents. Jasper hated himself for it. John didn't want him and he couldn't even run away properly. There was no place in London where his family couldn't find him.

“I will permit you to stay with me for the time being, on the grounds that you speak with your father, no,” he lifted a hand as Jasper began to protest. “Those are the conditions. You do not have to go back to Baker Street. Your father has made his bed and he will most assuredly have to lie in it, but this game ends now, Jasper. Do we have an understanding?”

Thumping his curly head sideways against the window, Jasper nodded unhappily and wrapped his threadbare coat tighter around himself.

“Good,” Mycroft hummed, now back to his BlackBerry. “Let's get you home and into the shower. You're ruining my upholstery.”

\----

Sherlock was on top of John, around him, inside of him. John smelled like mouthwash and the eighteen-year-old scotch that Mycroft often kept on hand, but underneath that, his scent was robust. Sherlock inhaled it deeply, wondering if he would ever smell it again. 

John's breath was ragged beneath him, stilted with every thrust of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock groaned as John's legs tightened around his waist, dropped his lips and tasted what was being offered to him. John's skin was soft and damp, the area at the base of his neck salty with sweat. His other hand was gently stroking John's cock, just enough to bring him pleasure but not enough to let him come. Sherlock wanted to prolong the moment, wanted it to last for an eternity, even if that eternity was the few moments they had left together. Sherlock wanted to be buried inside his young lover until he wouldn't forget what it felt like to have John wrapped around him. 

Sherlock traced the line of a vein in John's neck, following the pale thread up until it led over his chin, to soft, supple lips. John would want to be active duty; he enjoyed the challenge, wanted the excitement, which would mean Afghanistan or Iraq. Sherlock tried to picture John's likely transformation after time in the sun. He pictured an older John, weathered from the sun, how his blue eyes would stand out against his tan skin, the sturdiness of his form after days of running, training. Sherlock hoped that one day he would be able to see this John, alive and well, even if it had to be from a distance. 

Sherlock slowed his movements, rocking his hips until he was prodding John's prostate with gentle presses, drawing out a series of low pitched moans from the back of John's lovely throat. 

Sherlock went low and grabbed John around the waist, flipping them over so that John was above him. It was his first time, Sherlock suspected, of being with a man. John balanced his weight with both hands on either side of Sherlock's head, his strong fingers squeezing the pillows as he adjusted to Sherlock's length settled in his arse until it couldn't go any further. When John was comfortable, Sherlock thrust his hips up the tiniest bit, unable to look away for a moment. He was pressed to remember every detail of John's face when they were together. 

John dropped his hips and Sherlock shuddered at the feel of John's plush arse snug against his pelvis. It started out slowly, just John hitching his hips in controlled thrusts that left Sherlock breathless, but minute after minute, it became more obvious that they would never have one another the same way again. Sherlock pressed his fingers into John's hips until he was sure that they would bruise and John bore down on his cock with harsher motions until they were all but tearing at one another. Sherlock wrapped one around John's waist and the other circled his neck to tangle into the golden strands at his nape. 

Sherlock didn't kiss him, merely pulled them together until their lips touched, until Sherlock could feel John's breath seeping into his lungs. It was recycled air, but it had been inside John, and so now a bit of John was also a part of Sherlock. 

Sherlock sat up until they were face to face. John's fingernails began cutting crescents into Sherlock's shoulder blades until his back stung with fresh wounds. 

It was highly irrational that Sherlock should be so passionate about someone he hadn't known for long, and an improbability that he would grieve John's absence indefinitely, and yet he felt plaintive and angry. 

Why couldn't he have this? Why couldn't he have _John_? 

Sherlock loved his son and would be lying if he said that his absence from Baker Street was gut-wrenchingly appalling, but for years he hadn't been happy. Truthfully, he hadn't been anything, neither happy nor unhappy. The brightest moments of his life were with Jasper, but John had infused those sepia-toned memories with a few of his own from the past month they’d known one another. 

“Come back,” John whispered against his lips, and kissed him softly, bringing Sherlock back to 221B, back to his last moments with John. 

Sherlock missed and loved his son dearly, but why did he feel as if losing John would be like missing a vital organ? 

\---

They lay in bed afterward, spent and lying over sweat-soaked bed sheets. Cool air dried the pearly beads of perspiration on their skin until John reached over and pulled the cover over their naked bodies. 

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was baking something that smelled of freshly baked bread and a tangy-sweet aroma that drifted up through the floorboards. Her telly blared Connie Prince, probably to block out the noise from upstairs, or either the walls were just thin. 

John looked down from over Sherlock's shoulders to twin cerulean eyes openly observing him. “How do you feel,” Sherlock enquired, lifting a thumb to stroke over John's swollen lips, and John licked them automatically as Sherlock pulled away. 

John smiled and dropped his gaze, smoothing his hands over the sheet between them until Sherlock caught it with the hand not tucked under his head. “It was brilliant,” he replied, squirming a bit under Sherlock's intense gaze. It _had_ been perfect, and yet, John still felt a bit of wrongness, a sense that he was betraying Jasper, even if he wasn’t there anymore. Guilty, he sat up and ran his hands through his hair, sighing. 

Sherlock sat up, too, his halo of curls wild and dark against a landscape of pale skin. He leaned forward into John's space, pushing forward until John was pressed back against the headboard, and kissed him roughly. When Sherlock pulled away, his jaw was set. “Regret has no place in our bed,” he said.

 _‘Your bed,’_ John silently corrected. As much as he would have wanted it to be their bed, there was no time in the present or future in which it would ever be. 

John shook his head, wondering if Sherlock even thought of Jasper, wondered if Sherlock felt the weight in his chest that John often did when Jasper didn't stomp up the stairs. Did he ever think about his son’s face, so much like his own, and those vivid green eyes only made more piercing by the spectacles? Did he think of the auburn curls and witty jokes, did he miss the banter? 

John did.

Sherlock must have seen the question in his eyes, because he recoiled and got out of the bed, tossing the cover away in frustration. 

John pulled his knees up to his chest, attempting to curl away the anxiety, but it kept building and building. He didn't want his last time with Sherlock to be this way. “Sherlock-”

“Just get out,” Sherlock snarled, and it was like a punch to the gut to see the malice in his eyes. “The way you look at me, as if all of this,” he said, gesturing around them angrily, “is my fault.”

John got up then, too, pulling the sheet around his waist in an attempt at modesty. It was too late for that, John figured, but if he was going to have a row with Sherlock, he would so so with his dignity intact, at least. “Sherlock, I never said that.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, buttoning up his trousers, “but you've forgotten that I'm the most observant man in London, John, and you hide your thoughts poorly. Maybe they’ll teach you something useful in the army, like the art of concealment.”

Sherlock was baiting John, spoiling for a fight, but John was reluctant to give it to him. “You're angry,” he stated calmly.

“And you're an idiot,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow at John in challenge. “Are we stating the obvious now?” Sherlock shrugged into a fresh cotton shirt and buttoned it with quick, nimble fingers while John stood there like a fool in a sheet.

John shook his head and dropped the sheet, grabbing his pants off the floor and stuffing one foot and then the other clumsily through the openings. Once he was fully dressed in his rumpled jumper and denims, John followed Sherlock out to the sitting room. 

John folded his hands and leaned back against the desk as Sherlock fluttered around the room, making more of a mess than anything. “I know it's not just your fault, Sherlock, I know. I wasn't implying anything.”

Sherlock stopped at the mantle, straightening the skull there, before placing one hand on his hip and the other on the ledge, drumming his nails against the wood. “I know what you think, John,” Sherlock began softly. “You think that I don't miss my son, when in fact I think of him more than you can possibly conceive.” 

Sherlock looked at him then, and there was no doubt of the anger and shame, the pain lingering in his gaze. “We've never been away from one another longer than a week, and now my son won't even find a way to tell me he's okay. He's stubborn and prideful, as was I at that age. I know him better than he knows himself, in that he won't be found until he is ready.”

The tone of his voice varied from hopelessness to anger, dropping an octave the longer he spoke. “I just want to see him.”

John crossed the room quickly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back, feeling the man tremble in his arms. He wasn't crying, merely trembling, but it had the same effect on John. He held him until the trembling stopped and when he pulled away to look Sherlock in the eyes, they were rimmed red. 

John rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock's biceps and squeezed, hoping to reassure him. 

John opened his mouth to speak, but the merry sound of Sherlock's ringtone cut him off prematurely. Sherlock held his eyes for a moment longer before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Mycroft,” he greeted without preamble. He listened for a moment before growing still, his pale features bleeding of further color. 

John stayed quiet, hoping that it was information about Jasper.

“Where?” Sherlock snapped, his breathing laboured and voice trembling as he sprung into action, grabbing his keys and coat, not bothering to put it on as he swept to the door. “I'm on my way.”

He hung up and paused at the door, turning as if he had forgotten that John was there. With some awe and what looked like relief, Sherlock said, “Jasper is with Mycroft.”

John inhaled slowly, exhaled, his chest constricting as he thought about what must come next. “God, Sherlock, go,” he shouted excitedly, though his heart was sinking. 

Sherlock nodded, though he remained solemn. “Will I see you later?”

John smiled amicably, unsure if he should lie. He didn't want to lie, but he also wanted Sherlock's mind to be fully on Jasper when they reunited for the first time in weeks. “Yes. Maybe. It doesn't matter right now, Sherlock,” he said. “Just go see Jasper. Make sure he's alright.” 

Sherlock stared, his eyes narrowed, but then he blinked and the curious look had vanished. “Alright,” he acquiesced. Then he was out the door and clacking down the stairs, shouting something to Mrs. Hudson on the way out.

John rushed to the window just in time to see Sherlock hail a cab, throwing his coat over his shoulders like a great cape and swirling into the back seat with so much grace. That would be his last time seeing Sherlock, he supposed. 

With a heavy sigh, John left the window, allowing the curtain to fall back into place before he was off gathering his things and stuffing them into his backpack. Before he left, John did one last thing. He’d written letters to both Jasper and Sherlock. He left Jasper’s on his bed where his friend would see it when he returned, and Sherlock's where only he could find it. 

John walked out of 221B quickly, afraid to look back, afraid he would do something as cliché as say goodbye to an empty flat, or worse – cry. 

_‘You're a star, Mrs. Hudson,’_ he thought as he passed 221A on the way out the door. 

So long, Baker Street.

He turned for the direction of the tube and resigned himself to a future unknown. 

\---

Mycroft watched silently from his window seat at the street below the second storey of his townhouse. It was gated, but Mycroft had a prime view of the main road through the iron fencing and of course, CCTV and (covert) around-the-clock security. Therefore, he had a wonderful seat when a black cab pulled up to the kerb precisely fifteen minutes after contacting his little brother. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock emerged from the cab, tactlessly throwing a few notes at the cab driver. 

Brash, as always, and thoughtless, but Mycroft thought of those things rather fondly. Sherlock wouldn't be nearly as much fun to prod at if he weren't any of those things. 

He rang his bell and a moment later his butler arrived at the door. “Summon my nephew, would you, and show my brother up to the office, Winston.” The man bowed his head politely and turned, before Mycroft stopped him once more. “Oh, and have Marian bring up tea.”

“Right away, Mister Holmes,” Winston said, and gently closed the door behind himself. 

A few moments later, Jasper knocked once and pushed open the door, leaving it open as the butler sputtered behind him. He crashed into the seat and folded his arms as he stared defiantly at Mycroft. As if forgetting something, he turned to the butler lingering hesitantly in the doorway and smiled. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock was raising his son to be an uncouth delinquent. “His name is Winston, Jasper, and he will be addressed as such.” Mycroft waved away the man in question and returned his attention back to his nephew.

Jasper turned and laughed once he saw the bland look Mycroft was giving him. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “So, you rang?”

“That I did,” Mycroft nodded. “Your father is here.”

Jasper’s eyes grew wide behind the replaced glasses. “What?” he asked, sitting up, and it was just calm enough to reveal the panic in his green eyes. Before things could get out of hand, Mycroft hastened to smooth things over.

“He only wants to insure your personal well-being, Jasper. At least give him that.”

“Yes, at least give me that,” a new voice cut in. Mycroft only sighed at his brother’s tendency towards theatrics. Now that he was so close, Mycroft could observe his brother better.

For the first time in weeks, Sherlock didn't appear sallow and harried. His cheeks were pink from the wintry weather and his eyes were a pallid shade of blue as they swung over his son’s frozen figure, deducing. Sherlock's pants were wrinkled and there was a spot just below his collar that was inflamed, like the beginnings of a bruise. His lips were slightly swollen, as well. It could have been nerves, but Sherlock was never much of a lip biter, so prolonged contact with something, or someone.

So his little brother had consummated his relationship with John Watson. Well then, it was just their fortune that Jasper was not as observant. What had Sherlock been thinking, showing up without first cleaning himself up?

“Dad,” Jasper said, and his voice wavered the slightest bit. “Didn't know you were coming.” 

A knock on the door startled them all, and Sherlock stepped aside as the homely young, maid delivered the tea service on a tray, which she sat before Mycroft. He dismissed her with a grateful nod and she left quietly, clearly uncomfortable with the silence. No one spoke until the door had fully closed. 

“Brother,” Mycroft said, and gestured towards the unoccupied seat beside Jasper. “Join us, will you?”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from Jasper’s and nodded, pulling his gloves off as he pulled the chair out and sat, sinking into the leather much like his son. No one touched the tea.

“Good, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, we will talk about this like the sensible adults that we are, are we clear on that matter?” Mycroft did so hate to be the only rational adult in the room, but these things couldn't be helped. “Excellent,” he stated when they both conceded reluctantly. “Now Jasper, talk to your father.”

When Jasper looked at him pleadingly, Mycroft gestured to Sherlock with one hand before folding his hands on the table, waiting patiently. Of course, it didn't pan out that way. 

After a long moment of neither saying anything, Mycroft could see Sherlock practically vibrating with questions. It didn't take long for Sherlock to break. “Where have you been?” he growled, sitting up to turn to his son, whose back straightened in a threatened manner. 

“Obviously I left. I didn't want to be found, but I guess it's hard for either of you to come to that conclusion when you're hunting me down like a bloody fugitive!” 

“Now wait-,” Mycroft attempted to placate, hovering his hands palm down over the desk, but neither of them were listening.

Sherlock stood, looming over his son like a dark cloud. “Just where do you suppose you were going to go, Jasper? You've no friends other than the one you left at Baker Street-”

“Psh, John was no friend to me, shagging you behind my back like a slag-”

“Jealousy is horrendously unbecoming of you and most disappointing. How depressingly _ordinary_ of you-”

Jasper jumped out of his seat and pushed the chair back, standing toe-to-toe with his father, chin lifted in defiant, self-righteous anger.

“Oh, yes, because _ordinary_ teenagers have fathers who fuck their best friends!”

“SIT. DOWN. _Now_.” Mycroft stood, towering over the both of them even behind his desk, his cheeks suffused with red as his blood pressure rapidly rose. How dare they squabble like children! Over a boy, nonetheless! When they sat, Mycroft arranged his suit jacket, smoothing a hand down the front as he pulled himself back together. Angrily, he huffed, “Fools, the both of you, allowing a child to come between you.”

Mycroft wanted to spit, but in the same turn, he found pleasure in the knowledge that he knew better than to get involved. Caring turned better men into savages. 

“Jasper,” he said sharply, turning his hard eyes to the young man who had enough sense to look ashamed. “Sherlock is your father and you had better start acting like it. Yes, his mistake was ill-conceived,” he stated, glaring at Sherlock momentarily, who stared determinedly ahead. “But he is your elder and my brother, and you will respect him, do you understand?”

Jasper sank deeper into the seat, this time pulling his legs up to his chest in a protective manner. He didn't agree, but his shoulders slumped in surrender.

“And Sherlock, I expected better out from you, goading your son with the knowledge that you engaged in indecent acts with a boy half your age. That is nothing to be proud of, brother mine.”

“Oh, piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled, then turned to Jasper. “I never meant to cause you any pain; it was never my intention, but I don't regret what happened with John, and it's better that you know that now.” Sherlock stood, pulling in his gloves. “Come home when you're ready-”

“Why, so I can watch you playing house with John?”

Sherlock stopped, his eyes growing cold as he stared first at his son, then his brother, and back down to his covered hands. “John won't be there. He's accepted your offer, Mycroft. Expect him within the week.”

Mycroft held his gaze for a moment, until Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room. No apology, but what else had he expected from Sherlock? Sherlock rarely did anything and felt the need to apologize for it. He didn't get that sort of thinking from their parents, so it had always been a curiosity to Mycroft where such behaviour stemmed from. 

Even with Sherlock out of the room, the tension was still thick enough to slice with a knife. 

Jasper was watching him, his green eyes narrowed to bemused slits. “What did you do?”

Mycroft shrugged and sat back in his chair, crossing his legs at the knee. “I only ensured that John Watson will never come between you and your father again.”

Jasper closed his eyes as though he wasn't sure he’d heard correctly, and opened them again, staring with dread at his uncle. “What did you offer him?”

Mycroft placed his hands in his lap and looked down at them briefly before catching Jasper’s eyes again. “I offered him a place in the RAMC, and now he has accepted.”

Jasper shifted in his chair, visibly flummoxed by the information, and his jaw worked several times to form around words he couldn't bring himself to say. 

“It’s neither here nor there, Jasper. Soon, he will be another part of your past and you will forget him altogether.” Jasper looked pained. Ah well, Mycroft was never any good at comforting words, but it was definitely a comfort to him that John Watson would no longer be a problem.

“You’re right,” Jasper nodded, pushing himself out of the chair. His face was pulled into a bland mask of acceptance, a farcical smile tilting his lips awkwardly up at the edges. Mycroft didn't believe him for a moment, but Jasper was young, and he would learn that caring was not an advantage. “Still, do you mind if I stay for a few days?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, waving his hand at the unnecessary question. “I'll have the guest room made ready for you.” Mycroft sat forward and began to prepare himself a cup of tea, no sugar and little cream. “You'll have to entertain yourself during the day. I'll be at the office most mornings and afternoons. Breakfast is at seven in the mornings and dinner is always served at six in the evenings. Anything later, and you'll find your food cold.”

Jasper nodded and turned for the door. 

“Oh and Jasper, please don't try and run. I'll know the minute you do.”

\---

The bedsit was cold and dank when John returned for the first time in weeks. The lights were off and the curtains drawn shut over the spider web cracks in the windows. The telly was off and the house as quiet as a tomb, or at least that was what it felt like. 

In his pocket, his phone gave a pathetic buzz and John pulled it out, watched the screen light up. 

*

**From: Unknown**

**Papers regarding your enlistment to the RAMC will be sent by post. Once you have received them, you will sign and return them to the listed address. Package will detail further instructions. Good luck to you, John Watson.**

**MH**

*

John stared at the message, staggered. So this was it. Sherlock must have told Mycroft what he’d decided. Now, it was all so very real, and soon, John would be leaving London and headed to places unknown. Sure enough, Mycroft would put him in active duty. He was a problem and Mycroft Holmes was a powerful man that had the power to render John moot. It was frightening.

Only a short ways from finishing school and John was being shipped off to the army. Possibly, they would let him finish his education, but John always figured when that time came, that he would be amongst friends. It was a depressing thought.

John dropped his bag on the floor, frowning. No mum, no Harry; the bedsit was as lonely as lonely could get. 

John sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands, scratching his fingers over his scalp just to feel something other than numbness. It hadn't occurred to him what it would be like to return to an empty house. Harry could go missing for day on end, and when his mum was home, she drifted between a drug-hazed consciousness and sleep. 

John put his elbow on his thigh and his chin on his hand and stared at the blank telly. He could see himself, reflected back in monotone, his skin pale and hair, slovenly. He didn't belong in a bedsit waiting for his doped up mother to come home, or for Harry to stumble into the door smelling like cheap whiskey and stale cannabis. John belonged at Baker Street and he was _so angry_. Fury crawled up his belly with claws that sank deep, buried itself in his throat and made him want to scream, lodged in his brain and dredged up bitter thoughts. 

He was through just accepting his shoddy lot in life, and if was to go to the RAMC, then he would make the best of it, and make something of himself. John was going to write home every chance he got, and maybe when Jasper read his letter, he would understand what happened. Jasper could write to him, talk to him again.

John sighed and laid back on the couch, turning to face the back cushion and closed his eyes. His dreams, for once, weren't unpleasant.

\---

_One week later_

Jasper left the Baker Street tube station and made his way down the familiar path towards 221 Baker Street for the first time in what felt like years, even though it had only been a few weeks at least. 

A bank of clouds were hovering ominously over London, dark and fat with moisture. Jasper made the short walk to the flat and stopped just as he spotted the red awning over Speedy’s. 

It was odd being back and only expecting to see his dad upstairs. Jasper drifted closer, his thoughts growing melancholic as he remembered his last night at Baker Street. Despite what occurred in the early morning, that had actually been a memorable day in Jasper's life - solving a case with his father and best friend. The memories were still raw, so Jasper attempted to push them away and strode forward. 

The door was unlocked when Jasper tried the handle, so he pushed it open and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. 221A was quiet. Mrs. Hudson must have been away. He continued up the stairs.

When he stepped through the door, his dad was lying on the couch, long limbs pointed down to the toes and pushed into the arm cushion. It was such an ordinary display that Jasper could almost forget the past month even happened. He couldn't help the sigh of relief at the sight. John was nowhere to be seen. 

Sherlock opened one eye, then two, and turned his head slightly to regard Jasper with wary eyes. Slowly, he sat up, swinging his feet off the couch and onto the rug. 

“Jasper,” he said, standing.

Jasper closed the door, but didn't move from where he was, somewhat apprehensive. He avoided looking around. Every corner of the flat held a memory of John, now. 

“Hey, dad,” he said, waving awkwardly, no longer emboldened without Mycroft to moderate the conversation. He remembered how his father had easily taken him down during his violent rant the night he found out about the nature of John's relationship with Sherlock. His dad had never once laid a hand on him, violently or otherwise before then, and Jasper was still not sure what to make of it.

Sherlock crossed his hands behind his back and watched Jasper for moment, before he asked, “Tea?”

Jasper nodded and Sherlock retreated to the kitchen to start the kettle. While he waited, Jasper settled in the seat across from his father’s favored chair and checked his phone. Once he’d finally turned it on a few days before, he received all of the text messages John sent him, each one more alarmed as time went by without a response. Eventually they stopped, and now Jasper couldn't stop thumbing through them. In the tube, he read back on months and months of text, just banter and a bit of flirting. Now, there was nothing but the static silence, and the occasional text he’d receive from his dad during his stay at Mycroft’s. 

When Jasper looked up, Sherlock was standing before him holding out a cup of tea patiently. Jasper took it and nodded his thanks, waiting for his dad to settle in the opposite chair before trying to think of anything to say. He cleared his throat.

“When did he leave?” Jasper hadn't meant to ask, but since it was out in the open now, he found that he genuinely wanted to know. 

Sherlock looked at him a few long seconds before sipping his tea. “A week ago,” he said when he pulled the cup away. 

“Baker Street or London?”

“Baker Street.”

Jasper nodded, taking a sip of his own tea before lowering it to his lap. He knew he shouldn't ask, but he was curious. How had their affair escaped him? “When?”

Fortunately, his father was a man who read between lines like he read books, and he didn't have to think twice about what Jasper was really asking. 

“The night you stayed with Mycroft, after your argument with John.” Sherlock tapped his finger against the side of the cup and thought for a second before speaking again. “He’d gotten into a physical altercation with his sister, in which there was an attempt on his life. He came back to Baker Street, and was there when I returned from Scotland Yard.” Sherlock paused, his eyes going far away and Jasper wondered if he was thinking about his time with John. 

“He enquired after you and I'd informed him that you went to stay with your uncle for a few days. He was unsure whether to leave, but we both know you would have been angry with me had I sent him away, and to be honest,” Sherlock flicked his eyes up then, and met Jasper’s, “I didn't want to.”

The truth of it rang out like a bell in the otherwise quiet flat, and Jasper bristled with the weight of it. “You could have gone for anyone else, though,” Jasper stated, resisting the urge to look away. He wouldn't be cowered by his father. “Why John?”

Sherlock's eyes flicked down to Jasper's shirt, though that wasn't really where his mind was. He waited. “He intrigued me,” Sherlock confessed, meeting Jasper’s eyes again. “You think I didn't wonder that myself? I have no desire to deal in emotions or delve into relationships. _We_ are a prime example of how messy sentiment can get and why I often avoid such entanglements.” Sherlock's voice started out slow and ended in a fervent note, gaining altitude near the end, until suddenly he was calm again. “I will forever regret you getting hurt by my actions, but I cannot bring myself to apologize for something I am not sorry for.”

Jasper's insides trembled, hearing his father speak that way about the boy he loved, his closest friend. “Fine,” Jasper said, feeling spiteful and vindictive, “doesn't matter now, right? He's not coming back.”

Sherlock's face grew frighteningly still and his eyes a steely grey as he stared back at his son. Jasper wanted to smile, wanted to laugh in his face, but instead he stood and said, “Sucks doesn't it, having someone you care about torn away from you.”

Jasper didn't wait for anything else. He turned and walked calmly up the stairs to his room that smelled like dust and not like John. His bed was still disheveled from the night he’d left, though Jasper could tell his father had been in his room. The Pussy Riot poster on his wall was skewed and his pillow was more rumpled than usual. In the middle of the bed, there was an envelope still sealed with John's messy scrawl on the front. He would recognize that writing anywhere. 

Jasper warred between throwing it away or reading it, before deciding to hell with it. It wouldn't be hurting John if he threw it away, and Jasper would only be stabbing himself in the foot. He sat at the edge of the bed and opened the envelope, his heart beating fast enough to jump out of his chest. 

He unfolded the letter.

_Dear Jas,_

_Where the fuck have you been? I know you've always been the more hot-headed of the two of us, but calm down you bloody bastard. Some of us average sized blokes can't chase you giraffe lads round London!_

Jasper smiled, mouthing the words as he read, his eyes growing blurry as John's voice filled his head. 

_Seriously, though, I can't say that I blame you. I miss you and if you're reading this, that means you're home now. Your dad missed you, too. He was sad when you left and angry all the time. A night didn't go by that he didn't look for you. I'm not going to make excuses for what Sherlock and I did and to be honest, I don't want to. I know I never said as much, but you've always been the most important person in my life and I'll always love you for being there when no one else was. I'm sure you've heard by now that I've decided to go to the army. I wanted to say goodbye, but if I have to do it this way, it's fine. It’s all fine._

Something wet dropped onto the paper, and Jasper pushed his glasses up and swiped madly at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, afraid to smear the ink on the letter.

_I'll never meet anyone like you, ever. I only got one Jasper in this lifetime and I'm fine with that. Isn't this letter depressing? I'm shite at this stuff, really. If you've stopped reading by now, I really wouldn't blame you. Anyways, as to what happened with your dad, it had nothing to do with you. I love you, Jas. You were perfect, but sometimes you meet that one person and the whole world lights up like never before. You see things differently, you know? I wasn't that for you, but one day you will know. I hope that one day you will find it in yourself to forgive me. I hope that you forgive your dad too, because… Well, because he pays the bills and teenagers are leeches. Just banter. I mean to say that your dad loves you and I hope that you never allow anyone to come between you again, myself included. I will always hate myself a bit for that, but I'm not looking for pity. I just want you to know how much you mean to me. Anyways, I'm nearly out of room now, so I guess I'll wrap this up. I'll understand if you trash this afterward, but hey, my writing isn't that bad, and you got this far so points for you, chap. I'll always love you, Jas. Hope to see you again one day, but if I don't, then this is my goodbye forever._

_Later (much, much later),  
John_

Jasper turned the paper over, wishing for more words, but was met with a blank white canvas. His lip trembled, reading the words over and over but it wasn't enough; it would never be enough. John was gone, like a dream that came in the middle of the night and vanished by day. 

Jasper turned to lie on the bed, rolling to his side with the letter clutched in his fist. His chest ached and his eyes refused to stop watering. Jasper closed his eyes and willed away the tears. He wasn't supposed to cry for John, not when _he’d_ been the one to hurt Jasper. That wasn't fair. 

Jasper pulled off his glasses and placed them on his bedside table, turning his head slightly as the door downstairs opened and closed. Probably his dad leaving. 

Jasper fell asleep with the letter tucked between his chest in the bed.

When Jasper woke hours later, his cover had been pulled over him and the letter folded neatly on the bedside table. 

\---

One last time, John had told him, but they both knew that wouldn't happen.

After he’d read the letter John left on the kitchen table, Sherlock had known that it was John's way of saying goodbye, but that was unacceptable. 

Sherlock had cornered John near his shared bedsit and demanded an explanation while John growled at him to keep his voice down. Sherlock scoffed at that and John had promptly dragged him back to his bedsit where it was obvious he’d been alone. 

Sherlock didn't know how John was able to stand it, being in that place. Five minutes in and Sherlock discovered that he might have a mild case of claustrophobia. “This is dreadful,” Sherlock stated, looking around the room at the peeling walls, the drab wallpaper and a sickly sweet smell that made his stomach turn. Throw in a few junkies and the bedsit would make an adequate drug den. 

“Yes, well, this is where I live,” John said, avoiding his eyes as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. They stared at one another for several long seconds, before John finally cracked. “How's Jas?”

“He's fine,” Sherlock said, shrugging. “Being stubborn, which is par for the course, I suppose.” Sherlock peered around the room, at the bed pushed into the far corner, the loo, and finally, the sad little kitchenette. “Come back with me?”

Before he’d even finished his sentence, John was already shaking his head in the negative. “We can't, Sherlock. Jasper-”

“Is staying with my brother for a time,” Sherlock spoke in a low, rumbling burr, slinking forward to wrap a hand around John's waist. “Like I said, being stubborn.”

“Yes, well, he's certainly _your_ son,” John said, smiling a bit at the thought. Jasper and Sherlock were a lot more alike than either of them cared to admit. “Why are you really here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock peered down at John with warmth suffused eyes and waited until John lifted his gaze. Once those blue eyes settled on him, Sherlock endeavoured to keep them trained only on him. “Kiss me,” he demanded, refusing to bend low. He enjoyed watching John stand on his toes and reach for kisses. 

John rolled his eyes, no doubt knowing exactly what he was thinking. For an idiot, John was moderately perceptive, and Sherlock enjoyed the contradiction almost as much as the taste of John. 

Finally, John tilted up on the balls of his feet, balancing himself with a hand on each of Sherlock's shoulders as he leaned forward. Sherlock met him the rest of the way, unable to remain patient when what he wanted was so close for the taking. The kiss was slow and unhurried, nothing like the frantic ones of that morning, or the secretive embraces of weeks before. Now that he knew Jasper was out of harm’s way, Sherlock was like an addict, hunting John down with more vigour than any drug he’d ever used. 

For the time being, the world fell at their feet and John allowed Sherlock to unravel him. Sherlock wasn't sure of the time they had left, but whatever it was, he was going to make the most of it. 

They ended up shagging on the couch, but to be fair, Sherlock was ninety-nine point nine percent sure the couch had seen worse. He made a note to return home and take a shower at once. 

Everyday following, Sherlock would monitor his phone in case Jasper called, and occasionally sent texts of his own that went unanswered. A quick message to Mycroft would ensure that Jasper was well accounted for, and all Sherlock could do was wait for his return. He’d never been torn before, never experienced what it was like to have to choose. There were times in his life when Mycroft gave him an ultimatum, the most recent being his last relapse, in which he had to choose between the drugs or his custody of Jasper. Of course Sherlock chose his son, and completed the rehab program on the condition that he see Jasper every day. 

This time, it was between his son and the boy he’d come to care for. Jasper would always triumph over any competition, but even knowing so, with John's impending leave drawing closer, Sherlock couldn't stay away. 

On the day of Jasper's return, John had finally been given his ship date, and after sitting down for a rather disheartening conversation with his son, Sherlock rushed to meet John at a café nearby. 

The café wasn't very busy and by the time Sherlock arrived, John had already found a snug corner to squeeze into away from the windows. He had his back to the door, leaving the seat open that had a clear view of the entrance. 

Sherlock didn't waste time with pleasantries when he dropped into the seat across from John, anxious to know how much time they had left. 

John had already ordered tea, and held his between his palms, staring solemnly down into the cup before answering. “I ship out tomorrow.”

 _What?_ Sherlock’s brows furrowed, his heart sinking as the words settled in his gut like spicy curry. John wasn't looking at him and Sherlock was verging on angry at the news. These things should take weeks, if not months. How was it possible that-

Then it came to him just as suddenly. Only one person would have a hand in it. 

Mycroft. Sherlock could sense his brother's fat fingers all over it.

 _“Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock hissed, “it's Mycroft, that fat-arse swine!”

John's eyes flicked up to meet his, and Sherlock cut his away quickly, pulling out his phone as if to make a call, but a hand stopped him. No, it was too soon. Not nearly enough time to say goodbye, Sherlock thought furiously.

“Sherlock,” John spoke calmly, but it didn't mean anything, not when Mycroft was meddling and Sherlock only had a few short hours with John. “Sherlock.”

“What?” he snarled, garnering a few startled stares from the other patrons, but it didn't matter. _John_ was leaving _tomorrow_! “He _can't_ do this. Mycroft is always meddling and he-”

“He promised me a week, Sherlock,” John said solemnly, “a week to say goodbye.”

Sherlock stared, swallowing a few times before he could muster a full sentence. “John…”

John shook his head, his hand trembling over Sherlock's, so Sherlock turned his hand over and folded it around John's, hoping to give him some form of comfort. “Didn't matter how many days we had left, Sherlock. It still would have come to this.”

Of course John was correct, but Sherlock knew his brother well enough to know that he was pulling every string imaginable to make John disappear efficiently and effortlessly. Sherlock loathed him all the more for it. For now, though, there was nothing for it but to say goodbye while he still had the chance. 

Sherlock swallowed, nodding, before he looked down at their interlaced hands, deciding. Abruptly, he stood, holding out his hand for John.

“Come, then,” he said, smiling hopefully down at the younger man. “Let’s make your last night in London a memorable one.”

\---

It was late when Sherlock returned home, his cheeks red and stiff from the cold and his curls windblown. He felt exhilarated and in his veins, his blood sang for more; more of John, always more of London and its layered depths. For the last few hours, Sherlock had dragged them around London, over rooftops, through alleyways, underground tunnels and places John had never been before. Sherlock wanted John to miss London, he wanted John to want to come back after the excitement of a war, and most of all, Sherlock wanted John to think of him. 

Somehow they ended up settling down on the roof of Bart’s, swinging their legs over the edge as they watched life go by beneath their feet. It was the first place Sherlock had gone to look for Jasper the night he left, because they frequented it most often after an argument with one another, or just to be alone. It was familiar, and held many memories for the both of them, and now for Sherlock, it would be where he spent John's final hours in London. 

They lingered there for an hour or so, at times filling the silence with light conversation and others, merely enjoying one another's company. John hadn't said a word when Sherlock pulled out a cigarette, though he cringed away when he leaned in for a kiss, afterward. It only baited Sherlock even more, and soon they were necking like teenagers (accurate in regards to John, but something Sherlock hadn't done in years). 

Later, Sherlock took John the long route to his bedsit and promised to see him off at the train station. Mycroft had obviously bypassed the prerequisites to procure a cadetship for John, so he would be reporting straight to the RMAS in Camberley for training. 

In a way, it was a comfort to know that John would be in England for some time and not completely out of reach just yet. Sherlock was a bit confused by why such a thing would give him solace. It wasn't as if he would be able to visit him, but knowing that they were still in the same country brought a small amount of relief. 

221B was dark and quiet when he arrived, pulling off his gloves and coat as he peered around the flat. Sherlock's feet led the way to the staircase leading up to Jasper's room, still unreasonably anxious at the thought of an empty room. Jasper's coat was still on the rack and his shoes by the door, but that didn't necessarily mean he was home. 

The door was cracked the slightest bit, so Sherlock peeked through the opening first, exhaling in relief at the sight of Jasper curled up on the bed, illuminated by the soft, yellow light of the street lamps. He’d nearly turned to leave when he spotted the paper crinkled between Jasper's body and the mattress.

So John had left Jasper a letter as well. 

Curiosity pushed him forward, and Sherlock was never one to deny himself, so he treaded on stealthy feet to the bed, easing the paper away from Jasper as his eyes darted between the letter and his son. 

John's nearly illegible scrawl was large and uniquely loopy, taking up more room than he needed for a few paragraphs, but it was his choice of words that stood out to Sherlock. Near the end, his heart dived in his chest as John attempted to explain the mechanics of attraction to his son. Sherlock cared deeply for John and the feeling was mutual, but he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, not when John's departure was imminent. Not only that, but it was obvious that John cared for Jasper as well, and John's absence would hurt his son deeply. 

Sherlock neatly folded the letter and placed it on the table, smoothing out the creases with the flat of his hand before turning to Jasper. In sleep, Jasper was de-aged, until he was once again the adolescent that Sherlock would tuck in every night, only to find him crawling into his bed in the early hours. Sherlock didn't miss those day often, and honestly rarely thought of them. He hadn't thought himself the ideal father and Jasper was too young to remember the nights Sherlock would leave him alone because he didn't know how to entertain a child. The older Jasper got, the more comfortable that Sherlock felt, assured that he hadn't cocked everything up and grateful that his son appeared happy for all intents and purposes. 

Sherlock ran a hand through Jasper's hair, noting the thickness of it, the unruly curls so like his own. Jasper shifted and Sherlock pulled away, his throat tight as he reached over and pulled the jumbled blanket over his son. He lingered for a moment longer, running his thumb over Jasper’s brow, his chest warm and swollen with affection. 

Whatever problems they had would be sorted and eventually the two of them would be alright again. They always only ever had one another to rely on, and now that John was gone, Jasper would need Sherlock more than ever. 

\---

When the time came to see John off the next morning, Jasper surprised Sherlock by cornering him on the way out the door, one hand shoved in his pocket and the other fisting nervously at his side. 

Sherlock shrugged on his jacket, watching his son warily. “I'll be gone for a few hours at most. Is there anything you need,” he asked when Jasper still hadn't said a word. Jasper pushed his glasses up and raised his eyes from his feet, finally opening his mouth to speak.

“You've been seeing him, haven't you,” Jasper enquired softly, sounding resigned as he shifted from one foot to the other. 

Sherlock had never lied to Jasper, but the urge to do so was strong, if at least to spare him the hurt that knowing that particular bit of information would cause. Instead he answered truthfully. “Yes,” he said, before pressing his lips together. 

Jasper nodded as if that's what he’d expected. “He's leaving, then?”

Sherlock nodded, unsure what else to say. He wasn't sure what to tell Jasper. He hated the feeling of walking on eggs with his son, but John was now a sore subject for the both of them, and Sherlock was inexperienced at navigating sensitive matters. 

“Will you deliver this to him for me?” Jasper requested, pulling a thrice folded letter from his pocket. He didn't meet Sherlock's eyes, scratching his nape bashfully the moment his hand was free. 

Sherlock glanced at the letter before swinging his gaze up to his son. “Are you sure that's wise, Jasper?”

Immediately, Sherlock could see Jasper bristle in defensiveness, his green eyes rising to glare at his father as he folded his arms defiantly over his chest. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you aren't planning to forgive him, you shouldn't give him hope,” Sherlock said calmly, unperturbed by Jasper's anger. “If you planned to forgive him, you would have come with me to see him off, especially knowing that it's likely the last time you will ever see him.”

Jasper turned away quickly, but not before Sherlock saw the guilt, and a myriad of other emotions he didn't have the time to interpret. “Please dad, just… will you do this for me?”

Sherlock stared for a moment before sliding the letter in his pocket. “Fine,” he acquiesced, and seeing his son’s hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, Sherlock did something he hadn't done since Jasper was thirteen, when he was still allowed to show affection without embarrassing him: he wrapped a hand around his son's nape and pulled him forward, placing his lips on his forehead for a several seconds. Before Jasper could respond, he let go and swept out the door with a heavy chest. 

\---

“There it is,” John said as the train pulled up. A soft feminine voice crackled overhead, announcing the boarding of his train, so John stood along with Sherlock, and walked down the platform to where other passengers were loading on to the carriage. 

Already, John felt himself rapidly disconnecting as the imminence of loss crept closer by the second. Sherlock stood beside him, a tall, grave silhouette in his posh coat. John missed him already. 

Sherlock cleared his throat as they turned to face one another. “I've something to give you,” he announced, reaching his long, slender hands into his pocket and producing a folded piece of paper. “Jasper asked me to deliver this to you.”

For a moment, John was more startled by Jasper's knowledge of their meetings than anything else. “How did he know?” John wondered aloud, and Sherlock merely smirked.

“You forget who his father is,” Sherlock replied, somewhat proudly.

“Never,” John breathed, shaking his head as he accepted the letter almost reverently. When his eyes flicked back up to meet Sherlock's, the other man was blurry. John blinked and his cheeks tickled with wet warmth. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

He didn't want to leave Jasper or Sherlock; it felt like abandonment, cowardice, whatever, but it wasn't as if he’d even had a choice. John hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to his mother and sister. Both hadn't been home since he’d returned and John hated that they would have to learn the news by a note he left tacked to the fridge. There were so many ties left loose, things unsaid that would stay that way, because John might never return. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and pulled him close, and John reciprocated, holding Sherlock around the waist. “You could always write me,” Sherlock suggested, and John chuckled, sniffling.

“I didn't take you for the romantic ‘Dear John’ type,” John said, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's coat. 

Sherlock's voice was a rumble of thunder against his cheek as he spoke. “I've never had a John worth writing to before now,” he answered, his arms tightening around John's shoulders before loosening. 

The last call for his train went and Sherlock grabbed John's face between his hands, kissing John desperately on the lips. John's breath hitched at the intensity, feeling his whole world narrow down to the tiny space they held in it. He didn't want Sherlock to let him go – didn't want to let go, but if he didn't go, the train would leave him behind. 

With one final peck, John pulled away, filing away the taste of Sherlock for lonely nights, the unique angles of his face and the utterly heart-rending color of his eyes. 

John reached down and grabbed his bag, mock-saluting to Sherlock as he walked back towards the queue for the train. “Be seeing you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock straightened, his eyebrow rising in derision as John laughed at him. “Mr. Holmes is my brother,” he shouted loftily over the noise. “And it makes me feel old when you call me that.”

John chuckled and smiled fondly, waving shyly before he disappeared into the carriage. 

John pretended not to see Sherlock's expression wilt slightly before his features rearranged themselves into a placid veneer. 

As the train pulled away from the station, the last John saw of Sherlock Holmes was the flap of his coat as he exited the station.

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

\---

_Dear John,_

_I really am the more angelic one of the two of us. You are always the first to crack in a row and raise your voice, so I would say you are the one with the temper._

_Anyways, I'm sorry I couldn't come to see you off, but I wasn't ready yet. I know it's selfish, but I never did claim to be altruistic. I hate myself for it, but somehow I still feel things for you. Not a very elegant way of putting it, I know, but I'm not good at creative writing (btw, I'm sure you remembered I failed that class). While I'll never understand fully what you have with my dad (or want to understand, rather), I suppose there's really nothing to be done for it now. I was angry because I thought for certain that we might be together. I wish that was how it happened, but dad always did say that wishes are illogical._

_Maybe I'll never see you again, but it will still take me some time to forgive you, John. Do me a favor while you're out there wherever. Don't get shot._

_Love (actually (sorry, couldn't resist)),  
Jasper_

\---

Forty-four weeks after John's entrance into the RMAS, John was stationed in Afghanistan, where the weather was nothing like London and the sky stretched endlessly overhead. John missed London, but he enjoyed the army life, the easy camaraderie between his fellow cadets and the freedom from his mum and sister. 

Since he left, John had only written home to his family once and had never heard back. Sure he missed his mum and Harry, but he’d been at the end of his tether with them towards the conclusion of his time in London, so John didn't wonder for long.

For months he’d corresponded with Sherlock until the letters abruptly stopped. Shortly after, he received a short, clipped call from Mycroft Holmes that he was to sever all correspondence with his brother, and that Sherlock would no longer be responding. 

For John, it had been a great loss, and the final thing to push him to cut all ties to London and his life before. He’d just been trying to hang on when it was inevitable that sooner or later, life would intercede and they would both have to move on. 

It was after John had shipped out to base that he received a letter from Harry that informed him of their mother’s death. An overdose, which John wasn't too surprised about. His mother hadn't been a happy woman in a long time. She told him not to come home, that their mother had been cremated and there would be no ceremony. John fell into a depression weeks afterwards, blaming his mother’s death, because maybe if he stayed, she would still be alive. 

From then on, John threw himself into his studies and the service until he began gaining favour and respect, moving up in rank. 

Three years into his service and things were still relatively peaceful at the base. They did their patrols and in the months where there was nothing much to do, John was left to stitch up the scrapping soldiers and treat minor illnesses. 

His fifth year, John was promoted to captain and he eased into the position with as much ease as he did his place in the army. At that time, there was an increase in insurgents and ambushes, so firefights were more likely to break out, and the patrols became increasingly dangerous.

It was near the end of the fifth year that John was forced to kill for the first time. He’d been leading his unit on patrol through a different route as was par for the course. They normally changed up the routine so as not to be ambushed, but somehow, the insurgents had received intel on their whereabouts. 

Besides the adrenaline and the fear, John couldn't remember much past the blood and the tinnitus as he attempted to staunch the blood flow of his First Lieutenant, Bill Murray. The sun was beating down on his back and all around him, bullet shells rained down like hail, hot against his skin. Beneath his hands, Murray’s pulse fluttered dangerously, and John attempted to steady his hands as he pulled the fragmented bullet from Murray’s side. 

The sand beneath him was a dark burgundy, and John couldn't help but think how ugly it looked in that moment. Externally, he remained calm for Murray, but every second that passed he grew increasingly agitated, wondering where the evacuation team was. The lieutenant covering him had also taken a hit and was leaning heavily against the side of the convoy. John spotted the insurgent creeping across the sand, and pulled the rifle from around his back. He left Murray for a moment, waiting for the insurgent to round the convoy, and when he did, John didn't hesitate. It had been a surreal moment, and not one that John could recall often after he returned to London after his career, mainly because there had been so much going on around him and Murray as well as the injured Lieutenant were his first priorities. 

In the end, Murray had been taken away directly for surgery, and he lived, but he would never fight again. Murray was invalided back to England. John thought about the hopeless look in Murray's eyes and realized that he didn't want to be relegated to that same fate. John had to resign himself to the logic that it was either his life or the insurgent's, and when he looked at it from that angle, John couldn't castigate himself for doing what he had to.

As ambushes became more frequent, John had to learn to keep his head during field surgery, and though it didn't come easy, John eventually learned to breathe on the battlefield. It was always a terrifying situation, but John often found himself with a clear head and steady hands. Where before he had tunnel vision, John could focus on the patient and be aware of his surroundings at all times.

The sixth year was John's last. 

John didn't remember much of what happened, besides the burning, ravishing pain in his shoulder, radiating out through his chest and back. He couldn't describe the feeling, because nothing had ever been so painful in his life. 

Fire, he would eventually come to compare it to. It felt like he was on fire, but John didn't know if that was from the infection afterwards or the bullet wound itself. 

Eventually, he suffered the same fate as Murray. John was invalided back to London with a pension and a sad little bedsit to greet him. 

Everything felt different. London wasn't home anymore and the people were too pale, the sky too dreary and there was absolutely no excitement. Without the war, life was bland. 

At twenty-three, John's life was over before it even began. 

John barely had enough to get by in London, and no one would look twice at his CV once they noticed his trembling hand and bum leg. The leg, his army-appointed therapist, Ella, had said was psychosomatic. John knew that it was, but that didn't mean the pain he felt was any less real.

It was during his daily walk (also recommended by Ella) in the park that he saw someone he hadn't seen in years. John had closed himself in his bedsit and finally convinced himself to leave after endless boredom. The walls had begun to close in on him, so John escaped. Now, he didn't know if he regretted that decision or if it were the best one he’d ever made.

“John? John Watson?”

And when he turned, there was Jasper. 

He was beautiful, just as he’d always been, but older and different. His hair was shorter than before, yet the curls were still present, and his cheeks had filled out attractively. Jasper was a bit taller than before and less lanky than his father, and instead of the bespoke suits Sherlock preferred, he donned a simple pair of denims, trainers, and a long-sleeved crew neck jumper that showed off his toned physique. Gone were the glasses and awkward smile. This was Jasper, the man.

“Jasper,” John breathed, feeling as if all the air was knocked out of him. “God, look at you.”

Jasper smiled, closing the distance until there was just a foot of space between them. “Wow,” he said wondrously, rocking back on his heels for a moment, hands tucked in his pocket. “I thought I'd never see you in London again. When did you get back?”

John brought one hand up to rub at the nape of his neck, feeling subconscious under Jasper's scrutiny. He was sure that he looked nothing like the kid Jasper knew before. “Mm, couple months ago. I uh- I got invalided so…”

Jasper looked at him with something like pity before he straightened, his lips curling into a grin. “Well, can't say it's not good to see your pretty face round here,” Jasper teased, finally pulling his hands out of his pockets. 

John chuckled, recognizing a little bit of the old Jasper in there now; the mischievous grin, warm, insightful green eyes, and calm demeanour. 

“Actually, I was just about to grab lunch,” Jasper blurted, appearing shy, almost. “Meeting someone rather. Um, do you want to join me?”

John shifted on his feet, readjusting the cane. “I don't want to intrude,” he said, planning to politely decline, but Jasper just waved his hand dismissively in John's direction.

“Come on. They'll get pissy if I'm late.”

So John went along, prepared to offer an excuse to leave before the food arrived. Maybe he could tell Jasper he had therapy.

In the cab, Jasper told him about finishing school and his years at Cambridge. John's chest tightened a bit when he learned that Jasper was engaged to a woman he met during his last year in uni, but he tried not to feel disappointed. It wasn't that he was jealous, but John felt distinctly all the time he missed while in Afghanistan. He knew next to nothing about _this_ Jasper. For a moment, he wondered if Sherlock had moved on as well. The thought sobered him.

The cab pulled up to an Italian bistro called Angelo’s, and Jasper smirked reassuringly as they walked through the door. They were greeted by a large, exuberant man patting Jasper familiarly on the back, then John, once they were introduced. John's leg was bothering him at that moment, so he was ready to find a seat.

Jasper, most likely sensing his discomfort, cut his conversation short with Angelo. 

Jasper found them a booth tucked in the corner, beside the window. 

“You said someone was coming,” John said, looking around, but Jasper just shrugged.

“Late as always,” Jasper grumbled, pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

The bell rang over the front door and John didn't bother looking back, instead staring down at the menu as he thought of ways to excuse himself that would convince Jasper. 

John’s skin prickled, sensing eyes on him, and he looked up at Jasper curiously, except Jasper was staring at something over his shoulder. 

When he turned, Sherlock was standing near the entrance, frozen. 

For the second time in John's life, everything else around him seemed to stop for them. It was like being on a carousel. It was him and Sherlock, and life kept going around them, but it was all an irrelevant blur. In his peripheral, Jasper smiled wistfully down at the table, but he didn't say a word as Sherlock approached. 

Sherlock appeared much the same, save for a few new wrinkles around the eyes. The bespoke suit was there, the ridiculous coat, and God, his piercing eyes peeking from behind that fringe was just as John remembered. John thought that he would never see him again. His heart swelled and swelled, and John fought the urge to look back at Jasper and ask him why, why would he reunite them? What cruel joke was Jasper playing? Did he mean it? But John couldn't bring himself to willfully see anything but the mirage before him.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes flitting skeptically over every inch of John’s person, as if he couldn't figure him out, as if he were an apparition. Finally, Sherlock's gaze locked with his and John felt a something click into place. He smiled, feeling much like a seventeen-year-old boy again.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so I'm finally finished with this. Gosh, and all the love was amazing! Thank you all so very much for being patient with me. I know nobody like WIP's, but for all of those who gave this a chance, you have my infinite gratitude! I'm still deciding whether I want to write a one-shot about what happens after, but I kind of like the open ending. I'd like to think they all live happily ever after, but you can interpret it however you like. Anyways, thank you so much for reading and if you'd like to receive updates on my stories or any other news, please join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com)!


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